On Process

Fall in love with a Questing Beast—

Face of a pageant queen
Bones of road cases and caravans
Body of a dancer and
bawdy like a punk band
Tree roots for feet
and the heart, a hearthfire.

With a partner, pursue.
Turn your back to give the knife a broader target.

Bleed out go blind get lost get dead get found come alive again

move to Berlin.

Become a sponge.
Place your porous body at the edge of the room.
Let the wisdom rain down hard
and gather the flood in your thirsty fingers.

Soak up more
and more
and more
and more
and more
and more and
more.

Get fat and squishy.
Leave a wet spot everywhere you sit.

Stay greedy. Stay soaking. Keep sucking.

If you must, when you must,
heave your bloated body to the side
and stare into the puddle
filling up your footstep.

See your own wide-eyed reflection.

See your mouth gaping—
awe and hunger
and awe and hunger
and awe.

Draw.

If you must, when you must,
before you’re ready,
find a silence imperfect enough
to fill with words.

Pull them from your pockets
in gritty handfuls.
Unbraid them from your hair.

Toss them on the sticky table before you
and find the ways they fit together.

Marvel at the pictures they reveal.

Watch the puddles stand up and dance.
Hear the puddles start to sing.
Sloshing and gurgling, join in.

If you must, when you must,
before you’re ready to end the day,
go to sleep.

Dream.

Wake up.

Follow your dream’s directions.