A Net to Catch the Sun and Senate
Tell me what cannot be said with a straight face?
……………………..Whatever can be put in a straitjacket.
What about the trees unlocking ordinary leaves?
……………………..Ordinary leaves.
What about the handsome little heart that’s full of arrows and about to bleed?
……………………..A hart full of eros.
Music is the death of
sound, it marries death
and hopes enlisted by
the mating call’s apologist.
I’ve never seen a truth that didn’t die
and resurrect a thousand times
a minute in a thousand different forms
in one unvarying, atomic mind or amethyst.
Bugs splattered on my windshield like
a torrent of romantic notions
born for disillusionment; dark
matter’s head upon a flat apologist.
The blazing hedonistic palm
tree calls the sky a pot of gold,
becomes a pugilistic lamp;
the youngest thought predates
the dirt, like the anesthetist.
The smartest thing I ever did was touch a thing I love.
……………………..Or torch a thing you love?
So many things have lived and
died, and love replied. Resist
resides in love and is the
suicide of death’s medallion.
But now the dead are scared
to live, the dead we cast
in plays, caesarean-sectioned
from Elysium or a madeleine.
So dust is man’s first
thought and the rain’s
last word, and yet
the opposite of life
is fur and a medallion:
The feral, final will
and testament; a safety in
the alabaster (pig-eyed)
beauty of utility, or
“futility” in a remade line.
Your maudlin eyes are pregnant with delight.
……………………..Grief is the light
of loss, the ghost of
laughter, saboteur of
all religion. (Tears of
quickening no more.)
It feels true, but no
scientist can prove
when ants look down
from airplanes people
look like gods. And so
the seven naves of Venus
(Planets are not the
butcher’s!) open to the
mullet’s tumult like a
bodice cup. The chirping
critic and constructive
cricket leaven the Levant
so ducks eat our ideas and
rain can eat insanity again.
One color died before the rain
could learn its story, now
it lives above the spectrum
like eleven’s navel.
America is where I live;
this country is the oldest
dream until it’s born.
(The welders north of heat
cold-fuse the lewd into a
paradise out west.) The Earth
is now the unacknowledged
outlaw of the universe, but
the second best bed is a
second apart from Venus
and her severed veins.