writing poems from the edge of a knife

there are poems of disintegration
there are poems of celebration
and there are poems on the knife edge

how do you cut it?
baby powder in the heroin
glass in the babyfood

i’ve been listening for the break beats
in the fake tweets
to see where the break can be made
and i know when my move can be played
hanging in the truth of it
sitting in the booth with it
remixing some snapshot from a crapshoot
into something more long lasting
i have bee tying the fly for casting
and i seek out the target as the last thing
and then i cast off into the stream
i am hooking for the anchor for a dream
salmon of knowledge lodged in a primal scream
to build a giant’s causeway
to escape from the lie of the wall
pomme de terre before a fall
all my irish ancestors came here before
and the dutch went and build new york
in a dream called new amsterdam
yes, an immigrant is what i am
and it is what i have always been
my name is a convenient screen
where you can paint the notion of british
but it came over in 1066
so i was some other kind of fish
swimming with the norman invasion
an unbroken line of caucasion
but as i continue aging
the coup i feel like i’m staging
is one of just educating
sitting there and contemplating
difference until it disintegrates
and then becomes a series of coexistent states
where it can mean what it means with no opposition
wake into and past a definition

cut it into tiny peaces
cut it until the momentum ceases
and we see it is a still eternity
a held breath
a shared death
and a share life
writing poems from the edge of a knife

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