Back off, I'm sleeping

and I realized,
There is that poem,
where so little happens.

I laid myself down,
and wanting my glasses,
went on a journey
to the bathroom.

I looked all over
and realized, of course,
I'd left them by my bed.

So I didn't get the satisfaction
of looking high and low,
and finally finding it,
but I did get the one

where it was in your own backyard,
click your heels,
all along.

The founding fathers
would have been grateful,
I think as I pull the down comforter
over me,
for this warmth.

But they never lived in LA,
and never lived
the difference between
church and state.

And all the monuments
are crumbling.
I say,

you're lucky to know me,
and Oh, my god if you left me I'd die,

but both are drama, and less.

You should see the things we see,
this blinding light.

Sezchuan Delight

And taxes.
These words,
like the made-up numbers,
you enter in forms
come time.

You will see a return,
or owe,
and feel that way.

We used to keep ledgers,
but now enjoy the afternoon's
murmuring 'cross the street,
warm in bed
on a cold day.

Home is here,
in someone's breath,
on the phone line,
the airwaves,
in outerspace.

And we are at home.
Like astronauts,
waiting,
waiting,
launched,
and good luck.
To return
someday, or not
(losses, gains)
but the experience is ours,
is home.

There are four rivers, Szechuan:
Your Life, and This Life,
each flowing either way.