where the heart is

Startled by a frog or a toad
Gum balls from trees
and beer cans from cousins
Seconds where my heart is still animal
And pulses wild
How do you say one thing?
The child prodigy
His paint brush grows stiff
In dank cedar cabinets
All I believe
Is that no one listens
Except a few of the specters and reflections
It’s hard in the forest
To see myself as more than
A great observing eye
And I know it’s wrong
Leaves and insects
The decay of all things biotic
And their obligatory resurfacing
I don’t feel of it often enough
To claim kinship
Which is sadness and vinyl sofas
Which is cigarettes but not in the cool way
My house is pleasant
But there are no flannel tattooists
Or whole food poets
Or perpetually tripping physicists and painters
I am a jester in recovery
I’m sorry if I can’t take it seriously

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