[Ruminations on a Failed Poem about a Hurricane (or the Truth)]

the Earth on its side    the truth, a wall
sure-of-foot on a road to nowhere    a path that
promises destination abandons me
for a horizon made from the Krylon
of a sun battling a half moon    that promises
to be    full of blood
my art, a limping medicine man
a map in his throat
palimpsest and poultice in his bag
on his way to my grave
or your cradle    my memory is sick   
I mistook my words as my own
but they said they were english    if this isn't
a misunderstanding
why isn't everyone listening
dark waters drum my body
like jumbie on a djimbe    the vultures
now hollow my bones for trumpets
this poem hasn't arrived    hasn't saved anyone, me
stopped the monumental
swallow of ocean in new orleans
I've had trouble lifting mountains lately
the peaks get stuck on my tongue    this poem has
talked the truth into being a hurricane
walked it through the finer points of a disaster
me, still without mountains    pebbles    damn
this poem has    taught my feet gravity
convinced me to trade my arms for wings
then painted ceilings with the sky
drowned my sentences in questions and why
is it that the earth is the sky?
that this wall of approaching water
means the Earth is on its side . . .

I should be speechless
sometimes the only language is action.