in my last spring poem I hasten to list
the fabulous, the diamond shaped knees,
the plateaus of the so-called small of the back.
whether overboard nymph with freewheeling limbs,
or a skinny-ass menace, all a what-if,
ongoing, it is on them that I while away time
striking my tuneless tin tuning-tine,
for willowy wisps with teacup tits,
who cruise my recently dragged field of vision,
my beard graying with brine.
each short-term elaborate sweetmeat,
an epidermal spectacular, a sweetheart cutup,
swiftly leads to the metro entrance cliff,
jitterbug into the windshield.
in yearned for and well-earned isolation
the loose-leaf poet ponders
the rudimentary allures inspired by nature,
by ones that strike the pavement,
stride with an unwavering propulsion,
and those most abrupt commuters that interrupt
the transverse discourse of the train,
equidistant like carousel horses,
highlighting texts or layering facial glosses.
seemlessly, I make them my brain’s matter.
a guy with stillborn and untoward eyes,
and a fully cocked mind, I read old news
between the metro lines, roundabout bastard,
nibbling on fleeting feelings.
oh, infinitely mutable!
one mouthful of kisses after another.
oh, the most gracious proofs!
not girls, rolling wrecking balls.
oh, let this be declared the international dependence day!
my nose begins to water,
the atmosphere is thinning overhead, like hair
on the back of the confused, evolving beast.
this errant ironist always surrenders
to the shudders of every improbable bliss,
artificer of fair titles, convivial conniver
of rhymed closing lines.
nothing, if not an idiot, unmanned by grace,
in an intricate display case,
like a moth mired in the summer night, as if moored to the flame,
though there weren’t many things in life one couldn’t paraphrase
some apparitions, gyrating as gerunds, still incite surprise.
my heart is a fast food franchise.
not to mention the men, the salivation army,
of which I am a duty bound bugler
playing the taps and anthems
of the willy-nilly push-pull of desire,
the tireless drafter of exaggeration proclamations,
from this self-inflicted occupation
I can’t imagine I’ll ever retire.
point proven: for some sweet elations
there are no facile explanations.
April 23, 2005
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