From the Ceiling Poems
I put a candle by Princess Di’s golden sphere.
I thought of my ceiling, but couldn’t see where it was.
There are no clouds where love interprets a thimble on a thatch
one could call drumming, joints knuckling around in bed
to make something understood; one tongue and another
flogging each other to clear the palate of past lovers
To my ceiling I sing, now is always. Doesn’t time slow down
when we reach each other? Doesn’t it love us so much
it runs to bring us close before we rationalize how?
Yesterday, I told ever rational person I know that my ceiling
knows everything I do and is coming down on me. They said,
your Achilles has been wounded, it has poisoned your mind.
The woman who painted my ceiling was not in a rush.
She poured paint like Pollock. In her big body splashes
everywhere has an image. I see jellyfish eager to grow human legs,
I see beach after beach and seaweed; I see tarnished silverware,
a plate beneath a vegetarian baguette, cheese puffs beside a stack
of combed carrots; manicured fingers clinching one puff.
There are lips parted, legs that look like mine, lips and more legs.
She knew everything there is to know of Picasso. All of which
I see, all of which is too much to name, I see. And, I wager,
she finished in seven days. Oh my, what a catch my ceiling.
I bet the painter coated one side with action paint but felt
it needed another coat on the other side and splashed with the wind
of the world in mind from one side to the other. I see a pregnant
olive branch, I see a stone; I see wisteria with strips of purple
gum hanging like grapes from its branches. I see a bulb of kush
and sing take me down to your river. I sing, I wanna get free
and off these crutches. See, I’m rational, I sing to my ceiling.
I sing like a bird, tapping on stilts as if a troubadour
behind bars. My ceiling is practical. I’m closed-off to admit
when that woman finished her work on my ceiling, I bet she lied
naked on her back to examine my ceiling and said it is good.
Proprietor of Rondeau Records, Myron Michael is a recording artist, writing instructor, and Cave Canem Fellow. His words appear online and in Days I Moved through Ordinary Sounds (City Lights, 2009), Reverie, Pluck, Tea Party, and Nanomajority, respecitively. He is the founder of Move Or Die, author of Scatter Plot (forthcoming chapbook, Willow Books, 2010), and co-author of Hang Man (Move Or Die, 2010). He lives in the Bay Area where he cureates HELIOTROPE, a monthly reading series.
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