Infinity Why Not
Fairly agog as if party snakes
were sprung from the mixed nuts can
we arrive here as a jumbled game of telephone
a stew consisting of blended newspaper, liquefied
shapes and menacing hair. To enter true life, now,
with good hearts in our brains, a rotisserie of breasts
holding the musk of physical education,
tropical relief beams or chains of sunlight
bowing on the crotches of some of the plenty.
As if drinking wine from this silly straw
helps you better understand
the digestive system of a small, unknown animal
and if pet plus penny loafer equals stoned on liberty
admiring the cartoon squiggles on tombstones
in the tenant privacy borders
like the short coastlines in the laundromat
we are both calm and tumultuous.
Just a twang of salt on this cloud for ultimate raindrops,
awesome echoes. As driving in thick evening parades
of snowfall creates a feeling of time travel.
And if racetracks were invented by a jilted lover
thinking again and again about returning home
over a cobble stone bridge
its reflection in the branch water like a pig’s snout
and for you, me, and the third sex
who desire to be showered in party favors
this mauve beaker is 30% reaction
a forged sorcery from the prismatic light
that both blesses and defeats
the high-minded shorthand of conscious law,
blueprints for a split level igloo,
an ice burg sliding through the door asking for a towel.
Follow the path of tornado grass, there you will find your piano
and your bank box. This is how a news story begins.
A green light suddenly aglow around a beery campsite
many friends in leather jackets testified to have seen. But you can’t
rest a finger on a globe and predict demise, forecasts and probable pasts.
Instead, I’d suggest you send a gift basket of iodine salt
to the strange people you read about on a schoolless mountain.
Ask the hammer and the awl to fix you up something sexy
made of walnut and twine. Drive through the steamy heartland
of Staten Island for great motivation in getting somewhere.
Acknowledge the mediocrity forthright. Be that little drop
in the oilcan for a prosthetic elbow. Witness the evolution
of the snack chip. Demand Stoicism. Take tender aim
with your urine.
Until your past lovers have grown rickety
and glide away on their Stairmasters, don’t fold
your cards on the felt table, don’t be the depth charge
that wades on heavy chains.
Where is the national anthem and whose tuba shall bear it?
Check your radars son, it’s right on top your shoulders.
Psychic Till the End
The cold press of a soup can to the cheekbone
has sent horoscopes through my mind.
DNA flakes everywhere and I know their identities,
how many maggots are in a bushel, on a warm
road. I know when your toast is ready.
I am withholding so much information.
In China, census takers count toothbrushes.
Utah saves a casino-chip sized daisy
from extinction. Once seven flowers
and now one hundred and sixty-three thousand.
Like pulling a cloth over something that died,
or the cloth over an important car that had been
brought back to life. My first car was given
to me by a priest. In the glove box
was only a white Roman collar
and a steak knife. These are some absolutes.
Do not stand over the red X. Beware
there is a deplorable mosquito in the village near
that crystal dome of soap inching down
between your shoulder blades. I have a dead
brother my family will not talk about.
People, we control destinies with persuasion.
Last week in Ohio they found limbs stuffed
into the hollow of a tree. In Barcelona, children
beat logs until they defecate gifts. At least
they do it with a song. What more
can one ask for? You fall to the ground.
We call the medic. The medic comes.