All my Poems Are Advertisements for Me

All my Poems Are Advertisements for Me

All my Poems Are Advertisements for Me

When I was young there was nothing exactly stupid 
about the world; In fact, in the good ol’ days

there was the thump and the tug of it, the way it heaved itself
like a stone, yanked so to speak in glory;

the way it fell up, crushed up, and then crushed up again,
getting newer and newer, louder and sweeter;

the way it watched its own face fall between its fingers
as though its face were a handful of gold coins.

I think I might have known the whole drag of everything
going upwards, a tide that pulled me with it.

Actually, I know I did. (You were part of all this by the way.)
And the sky, well, where to begin?

The sky was so adult, not imbecilic or thin or so-so or girlish.
Did I outgrow it?

Did I drink it, shoot it, find a way round it?
Did I get inside it and drive off in it?

Forgive me, but on my way to work this morning,
even though the sun was on fire and the trees were up,

I was in the apocalypse. Death is not what you think it is.
It’s actually what I think it is.