These days,
I have to force myself to eat fruits and vegetables,
to dodge the growling howls of temptation for sweetlings,
and who else has noticed that Vegetarians have “beef”
with beef? Grilling out in the south is like
icy wind-needles
flying through the air like
blades of steel
through one’s Giuseppe Arcimboldo-like fleshy fruit.
These days,
the early summery helium-heat full of buzzing things——
these flies of mid-Spring
allowing me to become the true Sultan of Swat,
the honeysuckles lining every lining, every soft coat
of pollen painting a yellow-bell across my nostrils,
tulip upon tulip, glory and grace in one’s face,
glory of petal-colors of every sprouted bejeweled
uprising, but Thomas Edison
would have been envious because I make flower bulbs
light up,
and ask yourself: Do Midgets need Shrinks?
In the Botanical Gardens
I’m wearing new Speakers: the “Rubber Soul”
as great as ever,
while I plunge into an acid-eaten statue.
I think of Raymond Lull
when he saw the cancerous, rotting bosom——
visual feathers
as if angels are like optic-beams in a moist air,
today, this very day like
a seeing-glass pleasing the images we yearn and desire to be
before us, without having to move a muscle,
but more than that: something besieged in a yatter
like bagpipes playing in your ear without notice,
and come to think of it:
there must be something Irish about each and everyone of us,
with or without the kilt, because “wingbags”
are everywhere,
but we’re all stand-up kind of people
unless we’re sitting down,
and like an armored guard, I walk with a purpose
through every airport (of the mind)
because Security is so “tight” nowadays that even
pinholes are burglar proof.
People need BreathaLIAR tests
or less bitter pills to swallow?
Stepped in a wad of bubblegum
in the Garden (written as if a diary entry),
like walking on a Tarkovsky jetstream of the enchanted peels
that reveal what only one feels, or in this case, the smell of it
like feces on the bottom of the shoe,
but much like in the way that manure can contribute to
the sweet aromas of roses,
the same can be said about one’s anxieties, frailties,
guilts and feelings of every sort
that can contribute to
beauty, an encrusted shape of testimonial reports
that bring a joy to life
like trying to tickle-pink a flamingo,
but what is possibly impossible for the unstoppable?
Think of attempting to “moon”
a werewolf. Pointless beams pointed elsewhere!
No-can-do
says the moon, itself: that pale, translucent balloon
of swoonsong
singing us all to sleep
and this morning I awoke and felt short
-changed when I looked up and saw the bold red “11:10”
before my eyes (ironing-out the irony).
My next thought
thought of itself and went something like this:
When babies start teething
the Tooth Fairy shudders in delight.
Our doppelgangers put our names in a Bingo Roller
like hidden words inside of icebergs turning to flames
like the Hindenburg,
and what if someday we all meet one another
in Hilbert’s Paradox of The Grand Hotel
in the Yester-“ago”
of some frequent misting of heavenly homesickness,
avoiding all voids in the tardy riddle of life?
I have to force myself to eat fruits and vegetables,
to dodge the growling howls of temptation for sweetlings,
and who else has noticed that Vegetarians have “beef”
with beef? Grilling out in the south is like
icy wind-needles
flying through the air like
blades of steel
through one’s Giuseppe Arcimboldo-like fleshy fruit.
These days,
the early summery helium-heat full of buzzing things——
these flies of mid-Spring
allowing me to become the true Sultan of Swat,
the honeysuckles lining every lining, every soft coat
of pollen painting a yellow-bell across my nostrils,
tulip upon tulip, glory and grace in one’s face,
glory of petal-colors of every sprouted bejeweled
uprising, but Thomas Edison
would have been envious because I make flower bulbs
light up,
and ask yourself: Do Midgets need Shrinks?
In the Botanical Gardens
I’m wearing new Speakers: the “Rubber Soul”
as great as ever,
while I plunge into an acid-eaten statue.
I think of Raymond Lull
when he saw the cancerous, rotting bosom——
visual feathers
as if angels are like optic-beams in a moist air,
today, this very day like
a seeing-glass pleasing the images we yearn and desire to be
before us, without having to move a muscle,
but more than that: something besieged in a yatter
like bagpipes playing in your ear without notice,
and come to think of it:
there must be something Irish about each and everyone of us,
with or without the kilt, because “wingbags”
are everywhere,
but we’re all stand-up kind of people
unless we’re sitting down,
and like an armored guard, I walk with a purpose
through every airport (of the mind)
because Security is so “tight” nowadays that even
pinholes are burglar proof.
People need BreathaLIAR tests
or less bitter pills to swallow?
Stepped in a wad of bubblegum
in the Garden (written as if a diary entry),
like walking on a Tarkovsky jetstream of the enchanted peels
that reveal what only one feels, or in this case, the smell of it
like feces on the bottom of the shoe,
but much like in the way that manure can contribute to
the sweet aromas of roses,
the same can be said about one’s anxieties, frailties,
guilts and feelings of every sort
that can contribute to
beauty, an encrusted shape of testimonial reports
that bring a joy to life
like trying to tickle-pink a flamingo,
but what is possibly impossible for the unstoppable?
Think of attempting to “moon”
a werewolf. Pointless beams pointed elsewhere!
No-can-do
says the moon, itself: that pale, translucent balloon
of swoonsong
singing us all to sleep
and this morning I awoke and felt short
-changed when I looked up and saw the bold red “11:10”
before my eyes (ironing-out the irony).
My next thought
thought of itself and went something like this:
When babies start teething
the Tooth Fairy shudders in delight.
Our doppelgangers put our names in a Bingo Roller
like hidden words inside of icebergs turning to flames
like the Hindenburg,
and what if someday we all meet one another
in Hilbert’s Paradox of The Grand Hotel
in the Yester-“ago”
of some frequent misting of heavenly homesickness,
avoiding all voids in the tardy riddle of life?
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