-for chris misuro.
i love sunrises born of carrot juice and yoga,
perhaps, a toasted garlic bagel
to wash down
the first gray cloud
and her cumulative cumulus frown, the first gray cloud
trying to block
the stupendousness of sun.
but peter tosh sings of "mama africa,"
and those cockroaches hide in crumb-caked corners,
rancid roommates are all gonna laugh at ya,
the muted chainsaw roar of the juicer
prepares me for an ascending asana,
safe just knowing
that on this day, you were going to stop courting
that korean woman with plum-wine cheeks,
high on carrotgingerkale juice,
a vitamin rich wannabe bodhisatva,
being smacked by the sincerity of sutras
and lurking in the shadows
of sullen siddharthas.
