By Daniel Cyran
every time i walk past the museum
i dream a world with Basquiat still in it
the wind feels up the thigh
of a cigarette on Broadway…
the Zen men & Zen women
stand at the bus stop clapping one hand
for the empty cars passing
my countrymen,
the potential for dream bodies
to continue careening outlasts even our own language—
you’ll have to tear my lips from the secret air.
because those who preach peace
are many times over those who spread war.
blacking out in 1996 upon being told
that people are nouns—
waking up in 1988 in a bath tub on the other side of Citrus Heights…
anywhere in the spirit the help wanted signs
are glossed over with 2,000 years of roman occupation.
if memory serves is no way to begin a sentence,
even though on the 1st and 15th nobody can faithfully question
whose or what g-d you are currently praying to
Daniel Cyran is a poet based in the Pacific Northwest. He edits Anvil Tongue. Daniel believes in the human spirit and the capacity therein to create goodness. Daniel is on Instagram @saintredwoodpoems. His work can be found on the web: https://www.starkandsaintredwood.com/
