To My Muse, and: Aphorisms for a Lonely Planet

To My Muse

When I ask for step-by-step instructions, you tell me to eavesdrop on blue herons, to wash in dust, to take dictation from urban rain. When I ask where you live, you say, Can floating spores be parsed?

When I attempt to nap my humble way toward the sublime, you toss a talking pig into my dreams. When I shout, “Huzzah!” you caution that testosterone is a dangerous fuel to think with.

When I try to footnote desire, you say, Who can extract sunlightfrom a field woozy with pollen and matingdragonflies? When I ask how long till I’m famous, you invite me to scribble my question on hatchling sea turtles

then release them into the starved Pacific. When I mutter, “When, when will you visit?” you have already morphed into a stab of October light italicizing a hopscotching six-year-old, all lope and bounce, singing about tornadoes.

Aphorisms for a Lonely Planet

Gesundheit!—as close as I’ve come to Nietzsche and Heidegger in months.

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All ants on Earth outweigh all humans—some truths climb your leg for weeks.

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Why do I assume stargazer lilies are happier than dandelions?

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Doves—mourning or morning? Both names sound wrongly right.

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During delivery, we rename the vagina birth canal: to help the men of this world think exit rather than entrance.

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Dirt doesn’t mind that we step on it, just as stars do not pine for our promises.

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In every dialect of bee, drone is a compliment.

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Historians: failed philosophers. Philosophers: failed poets. Poets: failed historians. Etc.

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Men rarely pee on their own toilet seats, women even more rarely.

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What holds the kite up, the wind or a ball of twine?

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Foolish reader, still trying to use this poem as a mirror?

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Fifteen-year-old son to his father: “Aren’t we all heroine addicts to some degree?”

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Often I fill the teapot not to slake my thirst but to be summoned by singing.