ideas are things
Everything touches: one skin binding
the tiger liliesí orange flame
behind the roadside bush,
the red car disappearing over tracks,
the rabbit, alert as the bus passes by,
the street signs, the trees, the sky.
Somehow, the kiss of two lovers
in an ancient, sun-licked land
floats here among the leaves:
a butterfly pursues it,
but is soon confused
and flutters away.
the word of the world:
the vowel of the wind,
the consonant of pattern:
a syllable unique
in the unuttered void,
in the mouth of ash and music.
If a string of light
came loose in the sky
and we pulled on it,
the rocks and stars would unravel,
principles and timber
would bubble and swirl in the shapeless soup.
some of us like water sports
There are so many ways of drowning
(kids, donít try this at home),
but the true connoisseur
eschews a liquid medium,
preferring the air and the day
(and waiting one half hour
diving in, imbibing --
and sometimes the savorable flavors
intoxicate, Ďtil giggles escape
like bubbles in Godís champagne,
and sometimes the toxins
paralyze, and breathing
fills the mouth and lungs with sand.
To have one gives you both.
The trick is staying thirsty.
©2003 by J.B. Mulligan
J.B. Mulligan is married, with three grown children, and has published poems and stories in dozens of magazines, including Outpost Entropy, Curbside Review, Steel
Point Quarterly, White Pelican Review, Bayou and Numbat, along with two
chapbooks: The Stations of the Cross, and This Way To the Egress (Samisdat Press).