what kind of stones?

good morning to the souls of my feet.
yes, i mean "souls" & not "soles." 
don't you trust me reader? i climbed the tree
& never came down. i befriended the wrong rocket ship
if you know what i mean. yes, one of my fists
will orbit again in twelve years. i am stargazing 
for a living. my father was a skilled astronomer.
he bought a telescope & pointed it down our throats.
i'm always painting him in a bad light.  
my poet-self is afraid of fathers.
not just my father, but all fathers. i will probably 
never have children. i'm a lineage in a jar.
the rocket is really an airplane & this poem
is very sad. i want you to cut the country in half.
once, i took scissors to a map 
of new jersey to try to visual a poem.
there's a constellation of my foot.
tomorrow, a fog will slip in 
through my windows & i will see nothing at all
when i wake up. but, remember, i'm in a tree.
i used to think i would grow up
& buy a house & now i just want
to make it to the next day & the next day 
& the nexy day. what if the tree bears fruit?
ha, it would probably be sour limes 
but i could make due with that. sucking on a lime
in the arms of the tree. i have not held someone
for a very long time. sometimes my body
takes a walk without me. oh rocket ship
what kind of stones could you bring me?
i touched a moon rock when i was ten just like
all the other people at air & space museum.
i'm afraid of getting too old to bend
into a bridge. i have unpaid tolls 
from driving away from new york. it wasn't 
an escape. it was an elegy. there, my dollars
turned to pigeons. beautiful shimmer-winged pigeons.
i feed them sunflower seeds. 
the tree will have children & the tree's children
will first emerge small as veins. 
i will tell them i'm their grandfather.
my grandfather is a ghost in my parent's attic
where he guards his box of ashes. 
cremation is the future for everything.
i would cremate my old clothing to keep
some vistage of its soul. what a material human
i have become. 

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