Fall of the Empire
Bruce McRae

What time does the bluebird sing?
You may well ask, my pursuit of happiness
not going quite as planned,
laughing my way through the opening

of the seventh seal, breaking butterflies on a wheel

while weeding the Garden of Evil,

asking “What time is now?” or “When is forever?”

or “The who and the how?”

In an empire of language, I’m the one

chewing on a bolus of bubblegum and pointing

out the planets lost to us each winter, Orion rising

like a floodlit billboard, Venus hiking her skirt

up over her head, Mars blushing a furious red,

Andromeda leaning closer and closer.

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Bruce McRae’s Comments

When asked to write comments on my poems I’m usually at a loss for words. Explaining a poem is much like explaining a joke. The joke is no longer funny and it stops making sense. If necessary to understanding the poem/joke it suggests the poem/joke didn’t work and needs further mention.

I can tell you all my poems are written in bed in the early hours of morning, and that I’m egged on, usually, by who and what I’m reading at the time. I’ve written over 12,000 poems, give or take, and I haven’t a clue as to the origins of these particular poems. I do know that I wrote them last year, but after that … I’m lucky I recall my name and remember the way home each day.

They do border on what they call magical realism, if that’s any help. Other than that—enjoy!

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