here is the beautiful place
transmuted by weather
rubbed down to stubble and stump
I am here
I can feel my body confidently absorbing air
dancing with the wherewithal
one can be drunk on words
drowning in the fierce
pleasure of it all
a brief light hope
or the powder of love
last night a luna moth
came out of the dark to bash itself on my window
then the whatever-it-was pulled it back into the night
to entertain another
who might take it for a ham sandwich
and open up the port
these are the broad stakes
it will get us all
don’t be afraid
Let me take out my magic tar baby pencil
and scribble out for you what I saw
when I settled into that dense cloud
and caught a glimpse of God’s hide.
Plainsong Anthony and the Plainclothesmen
sang in the language of stones.
Mister Mistry pulled out the bewitch stick
and berserk mazurkaed through the radiant blind.
The Rhine Maidens wheened out the required
Requiem and then ran off at the mind.
The Legal Ramifications of this are yet unknown,
but I know. I’ve got interstitial vision.
And sometimes I take a wisdom pill.
But this was panoramic for real.
There was passion, power, plenitude.
Low-sodium acrobatics, mind-sap, maw.
Levantine parsimony. Paternalistic flaw.
My mother’s perfume: Pandemonium Marmalade.
They were all torch songs,
kind and complicated by doldrums and pang.
What they mean to say is,
You are the higher goods, Ignotus.
You are a magnificent fool.
Let’s entwinkle. Star star star.