Being alive is mostly fits of distraction-
Chasing tail-ends and paper trails,
kicking anything that rolls
into or out of anything gutter.
The after-dusting-dust that scatters
is what we’re after-
merely distinguishing from the clutter
arrogance + fortitude;
don’t let the mess discourage you.
Just keep sifting, knowing nothing sticks
forever because there’s tripping
and there’s picking up + there’s that
time your mom made you scrape off all
the hardened boogers smeared on the
wall above your bed you did
they fell thru the crack now they’re carpet-
someone else’s hidden ticket.
Leaving is life’s greatest disruption.
All of a sudden you start trying to save
the path that drops off near your feet,
lined with treetops screaming,
losing their brains to the wind-
ears born from this singing
hesitate to listen for the subtle calling:
Land on all fours or splatter your insides,
strewn out over rocks-
footprints and bloodstains both wash away,
we grow up boogerwall, then rot.