This morning, March 22nd, 2017 – I woke up like a baby bird unsure of my location, with an open mouth to be fed poetry worms, yet I had no mother, no worms, no lover, no kisses, no lines. Soon, just like any loner bird would, I learned the only way an alone bird can survive is to fall of its nest – you can’t learn how to fly by sitting in your nest –
So I leaped out of the bed and there I was in the open space of my house with a body alive, long limbs, brown shining skin, scars that are better than any tattoos, with my mother’s hair, with my father’s eyes – and thousands of years worth of DNA smoothy flooding through my being – oh god it is wonderful to not be a pure blooded son of man, for I carry thousands and thousands of delicious men and women on every cell of my body – rebels, kings, beggars, poets, prostitute, painters, merchants, gods and goddesses. So, I thought I’ll keep my mouth open a while longer. After all, I still have the sky, the air, and the colors purple and turquoise are present in my dreams, and image of your sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes brown eyes flashes through my head as I move my body through the space. And above all, I am the proud owner of the thoughts of wearing linen pants and small hat in south of Italy, dipping my bread in the fresh olive oil that I have made and drinking wine that I have crushed the grapes for with my own bare feet.
My mouth is open, and I am alive!
After I was able to pass through the existentially fueled poetic moments with an open mouth and a stomach empty of lines and loves I got up and sufficiently caffeinated myself. Ah wonderful to drink too much coffee! Then I fed the cat, washed my mouth of all the dumbs things I have said in past in an effort to explain how I think poetry is everywhere, even in your shoelaces for example, and how grass sleeps, and how goats would be happier, if there were organic balloon bushes in the mountains for them to chew on.
Then I dried my eyes of tears that came to me after thinking about the things I have been thinking (one most cry often, even if it is only one or two tears). Then I got naked, took a shower with realest of the waters, that traveled all the way from the mountains and rivers and dams through the city pipes, and did all sorts of wild dance and rushed like waterfalls over my head telling me all sorts of stories. My water passed through a zoo on its last leg of the journey, and told me it saw a gorilla reading Marx, and a giraffe flirting with the sun and trying to get a kiss – I was envious, I wish I was that tall so that there was a possibility of kissing the Sun’s mouth… I sometimes love loving the possibility of love and loving.
Anyway, now sitting by a window, with an open chest, lungs filled with words and deliciousness of being alive, I am watching spring take its first baby steps and learning how to call my name… she doesn’t know how to pronounce it all the way, yet..but that’s ok, and I don’t mind being called Pemi.
I finally decided to put some clothes on after a sing alone session to Adele only in my underwear, rolled up my sleeves, had some more coffee, open my mouth again for the possibilities of loves and words to come, sharpened my fingers, and wrote you this. Happy Spring love. Who’s to say I am not the wild poet of my house?