For My Little Brother Too

 

 

 

 

Dear little sister don’t believe

them for a ice cream lick.

You’ve lived in constant inspiration

thus far, why not make it

to 87 or when you have some

freak stairwell accident. Death will come

in its own hard line. Don’t rush it on.

All sorts of bent spines

will tell you, it is not possible

to live with constant inspiration.

They’ll give you names of those

who committed suicide by gas,

gun, booze,  and possibly some

opiate. They’ll say, “Ha, that can’t

be true-life, you’re not constantly

inspired.”  When they say that to you

your future will bleak. You’ll think

my Rabbit, how long can I endure.

What they say, little sister

is a lie.  You can live with constant

inspiration and you don’t have to

apologize for your elephant imagination

or your stable stream.

Laugh at them, whole body

hoot and shake your smiling ass,

your twinkling thighs. Bat them. Whisper

they have no damn idea. 

I am not saying choosing life

is easy.  I do not claim

that death will never cross your

mind or make you giggle.

You will be in a padlocked flame 

Most of the people you

care for will never understand.

You’ll spend the majority of your verve

trying to connect with others who

don’t give a nickel for you.

You’ll get to a point where

the only option will be a cat.

Breathe.  Life is short. Pain

is real.  Your mind games

are not. However,

You need to continue little sister

because there will be others who

follow your line. They’ll need an example

of how to live. You will be the only one

available. If you end it in a wild pig rampage

other little girls will too.  If you

live in sawdust chaos, if your childhood

was horrible, gross and still frightening

when you are an old lady, and

you continued, so will others. 

Just as I come to you now, wrapping

my arms around your body,

to sing clover songs to you in

Celtic tones, so will you come to others.

Break your heart for them, break your body

bent in prayer. Don’t sleep in a graybeard.

Don’t hangout where you can smell sulfur.

Go to a prairie grass or Lake Superior stone.

Find a sandstorm and stretch self

in all directions. Do not stop.

Hold the stretch on your way back home.

When you create your heart part

stretch the insides of art.

You, little sister, will know what I mean

as you need to.  My words will

comfort you. When you read them

you will not be so alone. 

Sometime you’ll wonder if you can

measure up, but little sister,

you will have already

mastered the technique. 

 

Breathe. There is

  room enough

      for you.