WEBVTT

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All right, moving right along.

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I think I can say at this point,
this is probably your two poem

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warning.

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It's a tradition in
the world of poetry

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that you get the
two poem warning.

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I could be wrong,
though, because I'm

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on the edge of my seat.

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I don't know what
comes after this,

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but this is called Standing
in the Forest of Being Alive.

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I stand in the forest
of being alive:

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in one hand, a cheap aluminum
pot of chicken stock,

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and in the other a
heavy book of titles.

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O once, walking through a
cemetery, I became terribly lost

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and could not speak.

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No one living knows the grammar.

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No one could direct
me to the grave,

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so I looked at every name.

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A heavy bird flapped its wings
over someone's sepulcher.

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Some of us are still putzes
in death, catching bird shit

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on our headstones.

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Some of us never find
what we're looking for,

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praying it doesn't pour
before we find our names.

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Certain we're headed
in the right direction.

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A drizzle begins,
and what's nameless

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inside our veins fluoresces,
fluoresces in the rain.

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