Poem for Jon
When the world wasn’t spinning, the beer went flat
and I think I got a taste of what it’s like to be you
always trying to finish what you started.
Sure, the last impossible thing was quitting, but
why not, darkness blotched my eyes til I was
rubbing in stars.
I see North to South like a vertical high and low
appearing to run like a river in every song
and book knowing enough to get by over it
holding onto to nothing.
Done. Done. On with the next one.
Wrote the Globe as Art during short phase
of the moon marshmallow flying off
I think it stuck.
Things become less shocking when you
value that river and know your place.