I
Mental trees being
In the dark, stemmed out
They are my arms
My baby body wrapped in covers,
The Cuckoo Cocoon--

Some sort of Jonah trapped up
Inside a whale

Where I fall
Into the cannon, a deep likeness
Of words and what the goblin wants to say--
I walk into the world full of junk,
How junk is a blessing.

II
Elbows dipped in mental-mud,
An entire being worked
Because I can't relax unless
It's hard and unexpected,
Each second in this great improvisation.
Shakespeare was right.
It is a stage,
All of this.
The goblin agrees
To send me--

I awaken, other side of the Looking Glass.
The grass grows backwards
And I talk in barks while dogs whisper
With dirty cat meows in dumpsters.

III
A rumble over the lake, electric
Pink lightning in the sky.
I sat at a café drinking cappuccino, sure
It must have been the end of the world,
Sure it must have been Jesus come back.
It comes out unexpected and I don't want it,
So much poetry it crowds my lines.
I wonder how small is his welcoming mat.