An Unexpected Guest
Truth arrived at dinner
Unannounced and uninvited
Empty-handed, and drunk off
Cheap wine. Freezing cold, without
A coat. Why did you come, I asked.
What makes you think you are welcome
In my home, I demanded to know. Truth
Just stood there grinning. Get out!
Go away! Get out of my house!
I don’t want you here! Truth did not move
A muscle. Leaning over the railing in the foyer,
Slurring words that tumbled out as grunts, making
The baby cry, Truth opened up its fly, pulled
It out and began pissing all
over the brand new beige carpet. Before I could grab
it, Truth lunged onto the floor and laughed
Hysterically, as the oven started beeping, beeping,
Beeping, beeping, beeping… Aren’t you going to get
the ham out of the oven, Mr. Payne?
Three Ways to Measure Distance
The first way is to use a ruler.
The second way is to use a clock.
The third way is to close the eyes and breathe.
Sucking in the miles with every inhale.
Covering terrains with the lifting of lungs like steps.
From East to West, beyond the line where the dome closes
Over the fields, there is a way to measure the distance.
By measuring the space between us
We can go anywhere, anytime.
My Griefs Lie
My griefs lie to me like a
Poker player down to their last hand
Or a poacher caught without a license.
They tell me what I want to hear, how it’s
Not my fault, and it will be better next time.
That feeling of losing something priceless.
A gold watch left in a jewelry box, hand-carved
By Pap, when he still made things,
Before it happened. It’s not useful to talk about.
That’s the way grief is. Useless, impossible to utter.
Lost in its own self-replication.
Tears, too. But the tears shed
The way a drunk dry heaves vodka.
Milpa Alta
At the market
buying avocados
tin-coloured wrists
covered in riches
like the distant hills
holding the language
of Aztecs. Diamonds.
Minerals. Lightning.
Legends. Returning
broken-hearted but
alive. Manic. Alchemies
of burning ideas. Starlight
and singing. The solar
system. Each other’s
eyes, and that meditation
Ram Dass taught us,
that night we got lost
getting sober in Milpa Alta.
What Paradise Looks Like
Paradise
is naked
devotion
to reality
The world
wide awake
in bed
rolling under
the covers
raised like prayer
flags, I am a child
with you.
I surrender
to you.
I am
Impossibly yours.
Biodegradeable
A billion I’m sorrys
thrown away each
year. Bought and sold,
glued and molded, like
Nikes, or a million
thank-yous like rubber
bits left behind in the road.
Carelessly thrown away,
we burn each other and toss
the filters. Three trillion seconds
of lifetimes, rolls of moments like
plastic wrap. Covered for a
night and thrown out in the
morning.
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image: George Payne
