The Planet is Liquid

The Planet’s a Liquid
The planet’s not solid, it’s liquid
That’s only developed a bit of a crust
The crusta, the bark
And beech, did you know,
Is the etymon of book
Just look
In the park at its bark, carved and scarred
Just south of the swings and the pull-up bars
The golden honey locust leaves
Drift to the dirt like confetti
As fish on the sidewalk flop
Off their table
And flap in the gutter, in motor oil
It’s said that youth is wasted on the young
But a far more insidious problem
Concerns adults and adulthood
Who could accomplish such beautiful things
But are just too damn dumb, and frightened,
and mean, with no imagination
Veering off track —
The trek, the tract, the traction, the action
The way one’ll move
And where’ll that take you
The beech and the book; the tree of life,
Whose roots stretch into the essence of time
The rime, the blind blonde
The Gorgon’s viola
The purple pigeon pecking pizza
Crust, crossed stars, the sun
Setting down into the subway station — disillusion
as liberation

Elliot Sperber is a writer, attorney, and adjunct professor. He lives in New York City and can be reached at and on twitter @elliot_sperber