Floor Drum

by on October 8, 2018 :: 0 comments

As if on the floor, surrounded by things to hit time with,
smiling up toward the light, hundreds of sensors
on the bottoms of our legs and butts
reading the earth, feeding the street
aching to flood like a dog at the door,

What comes to my house not my house, space i borrow,
time i’m eaten by, ignoring how the house declines,
becoming more transparent, like 85 year old skin
still attached but increasingly scripture.

How paper can sometimes take human form, any form it wishes
when properly given the blues, when swimming beneath
the red horizon, flying like a star made from a paper cup—
a way to fold space and make it solid

As some napkins have bones, some whale bones
got wrapped around my body as if i was a ship
taking how many to what they weren’t ready for

A knock, a thrum, a semi going through a phone pole
so much held in we get deep enough for neutrinos
so far from home, so ready to dissipate our om, our back-beat:
if music   then dance   & other dancers

editors note: A different beat requires a different drum; so long as you can dance to it. (We welcome Dan to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

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