Problem Of Translation

From my thoughts grow a thousand thoughts. As if each idea has a dozen unruly children sproinging from its face & armpits. I could make a list for you of kinds of thought I’ve witnessed just this week. An utterly inadequate list, each one swinging doors wide on so many new shadows: dog ribs; the ticklish sting of big snowflakes falling on my cheek; dogs smiling as they run; tiny children’s pre-language thoughts; the quietest place in Spain; the erections of Vladimir Putin & the Dalai Lama; umbrellas torn by strong wind; what Janis Joplin sounded like when she came; plaid; whether or not the Golden Fleece was real; the smell of anise seeds; the weight of love...the actual weight of it, when I feel it & feel heavy, in those moments, if I had the right scale, could I measure that fluctuation in mass or weight?; the iron heat at the core of the earth & its fluid movement; the loneliness of the last stop on a train to deep Siberia; the moment you were born & your first breath & scream & the haze of faces & lights you saw when you opened your eyes; how I walk around with your name tattooed on my throat, & how strange it is not to see it there when I shuck my clothes; a camera following me from space, observing my most random movements, recording everything; the color & shape of your nipples & the taste of your spit; the flexible bones of a snake, all spine; the baby teeth of cave children; the liquid qualities of glass; the idea that my blood is using me to get to you.