Chick peas are little boulders of gold.
They taste like a healthy Labrador's nose,
or like the backdoor of a fragrant marsh
or elephants in love. My elbows sniff
the table top; I roll my tongue
in the baffling scent of their viscous
juice. When they roll on my plate, I hear
a chorus of wet odes, each irregularity
damp and rough as hair soaked in wild
Autumn rain. In Cleveland I rolled some
around on my burnt tongue just outside
the bold pyramid of the Rock 'N Roll Hall
of Fame with Jimi Hendrix on my mind.
No, chick peas are not boulders, they are
fruit fallen on a forest floor, seeds of a
surging body of plants. Sometimes I worry
about seeds, how they ferment and burst
and fall through the wind from a great height.
Particles of bran. If I were to plant them
at night, each glowing globe would come
to resemble the moon with a streak of blood
on its fluorescent face.
She was, like, at my house, throwing stones
and the cat was freakin' big time. Hollow
catacombs of time, man. Her fire just freezing
me out, and the limes not yet squeezed.
I climbed the side of her building, keeping
my back to the gutters and brick. Klep told
it like that, as if he were not sleeping in some
doorway out in Forest Hills. I can see a time
when chick peas will descend among our flocks
and wake the lonely sleepers in the hills. Flakey
swans will kick up white feather dust among
the winding cliffs. Crescat herba vita excolatur
Frozen corn dances in light of garbanzo sun, streaming
through cigarash kitchens beneath clean hallways of bronze