You are the god that rules over unicorns, fairies, my literary career, and luck after all. How can I not believe in you?
I have heard so much
about this “dream,”
why do you keep dreaming?
when will you wake up?
Just believe in yourself and you can believe anything, even in God and the free-market capitalism. After all, Jesus died for free-market capitalism.
Please rain down upon me in all of your sparkling majesty and glory, your brief, momentary flashes of the visible light spectrum, your shiny shining like sugar for my eyes. I pray you make everything fabulous…
To meditate, start by stopping. Open yourself into the expanse of the universe. How it rolls on into nothingness and the nothingness rolls on into further expanses. Understand the vastness. Become the vastness.
We spoke in tongues. No one taught us sacrament so we invented our own. We ask thee in the name of thy son to bless and sanctify this spit. This sweat.
You turned into light.
That’s the only explanation.
Your body turned into vibrations.
I can’t see you because
you are everywhere now.
As your body lets go
of every atom
you dance into our dark.
Dear God of Thrift Stores. Holy Handmedown Lord of the Secondhand. I come to you impoverished and ironic to sink my fingers into your junkbins and sift through your innards. I come to you to make wholes out of incompletes, newandimprove a brokedownbeatup, to stitch together echoes. I seek you on red tag days when…
You are flowing endlessly from a glacier
into the ocean. There are a bunch of fish inside of you.
Now, envision men with fishing gear stomping through your stomach.
This feeling is familiar. Embrace it.
I want to tuck myself into clouds. Float over the terrain, fall all over you in thunderbursts, soak your clothes, ruin your hair. I am devastated at the sight of your umbrella. You still jump into every puddle. I want to bake myself into your favorite pastry. Present it to you. Watch you eagerly pick…
I try to feed her my dreams.
Here is a melting blue guitar.
Here is an ocean in the shape of a house.
Here is a train made out of swingsets.
She devours them. Licks the plate clean.
But she wants more.
R.J. Wright: Dyslexia What works in this piece: Opens with some light humor that he knows the audience will appreciate (“Words are really hard. Just ask any three-year-old…or Donald Trump”) Incorporates elements of dyslexia into the poem/performance reflects content, adding depth the piece as a whole Creates a performance (temporal) out of a disorder…