Daily Missile

Sounds mean everything
like open-ended questions
in a can,
the jellified sweatshirt
sitting next to me,
tangling poems in her hair.

When the light shines down,
I admire -
count 52 hairs on her head,
then stop
to write them down

I'll give them all names,
someday.

People call me Zeus
because I yell at thunder
to strike my pen
with inspiration,
but you can call me Alex.
I won't mind,
as long as you call;

Your voice is more important
when I hear it.

So if a serial killer
chainsawed a woman
half to death, in the woods
would it make the news?
of does she need to scream
the streets?

Like sound,
color needs to BE.
Survey the scene
and tell me
how many stripes
you pledge to.

I've counted 13,
every morning.
(Sometimes I use my fingers
to make sure)
but they still echo the same
synthetic words
I don't know,
and don't wish to.

I wish to pledge to something
that moves me:
a change,
a wink,
a sigh.

SO MOVE!
and don't you dare
stop to count the other's blessings.
Shift your own -
one foot,
two feet -
it doesn't matter what color
you show,

steal the inertia
from strangers with
your voice.

TAG! YOU'RE IT, MAN!

Now run.
Chase them.
and don't call back,
until you get there.