Cliche Juice

Home is where the heart is and my heart is
out travelling. Up into the wild blue yonder,
wingless, prayerful that this miracle of flight
will not end, just yet.
Also at home, with you, on the ground
wherever you might be at the moment, grounded
like a highschooler, like a wire, a bird and a wire,
feet on the ground and my heart in my throat now, now
in my feet, lawfully descending with gravity
to the lower, lowest, most sought after
most beautifully bound, home.
Aspirations involve reparations. We reach
for the stars wondering what we are.
But my Reason has been found
by finding you and looking down. And it is there,
not in the stars of fantasized worlds, fifth
dimensions, sixth senses, holy parallel potentates of
potentialities--that my feet will trace
their slow as history itself dance:
a walking calligraphy so subtle that it will take 40 years
and more and a view from above
with an impersonal remove and lofty attachment I hope
to barely fall at that mythical two-backed beast; itinerant statis;
like the one I enjoy up here in the well attended air,
to read the cursive strokes of my aggregate footsteps,
like some fairy tale dissolve, "Once upon a time," or twice
written on our little page of earth, ground,
where our home may be
will be
wherever we happen
to be.

as printed in Movieline, July 1998