POEM

Some day 
I will be a dead ringer elderly Saint-John Perse homunculi, 
Æsop in hindsight, multicolored quotidian physiog:

Red (I am the fruit of the hawthorn), 
Yellow (I am a jacket of flying stinging-things),
Blue (I am the babbling brook, bubbling),

Green (I am a clover of four leaves, hiding behind blades of lush),
Purple (I am a happy romp through an anti-hero’s heart),
Orange (I am an incombustible sun, buttering your bread), 

Rambling along now
Playing chess with Ariadne in a labyrinth of glisten 
In an air to conquer the unordinary, 

Arrows flying all about my salmon-flopping body 
of muscadines before theatre queues, 
tough-as-nails rusty sails saying—

     “My name near the border of sanity; 
     Fantasia-conscious orator, 
     having, in one sense, great sounds 
     of the enchanted celestial Celesta 
     in the ear... who can know it?” 

Chessboards, then, 
are smeared through my mind as if thumbtack-pushed 
by angels into my reverie.