Whirlpool


We are now birds truly on a wire.
This porch consumes us
like a smiling Scylla and Charybdis.
We are trapped on both sides,
but we are smiling.

The woman next door is insane.
She is sitting on my rug, beer in hand,
her two hands like two bipolar ends
of the earth although the earth
is round like psychology.

You always end up back
where you started, she says.

Karma.
Coexistence.
Death.

Like spending most of eternity
not existing.

Bible.
Quran.
Coexistence.

This porch and your existence
and mine make it all matter very little.

A guitar (sounds of the cosmos)
travels across the street like bicyclists
colliding in Ascension Lutheran
correspondence.

We are all musicians anyway,
singing for the revival of death.