Involving two lips.
Interpretation
for oriental
native minds.
Even though
you never
appear,
never write,
the substrata
beneath my
expectation
hollows out,
& here,
I aim for hope,
but remain
in the field
of some
Irish epic
where I sit
& watch cattle
being driven out
for slaughter.
Sad, yes,
but suitable,
consequently
focusing on logic,
somewhat lesser
than a
grand narrative.
Parallelism
to summarize
Realism
is dissected
by a vast
encyclopedia;
a Most Wanted
collection
of words
with shark teeth,
wide open,
gaping with emotion,
where my heart
appears through
another door,
where another heart
turns to leave through
my own lively valves
but I stop before
the holographic
bandaids of
The Past, Present
& Future
become altogether
aware of
Themselves,
the way that
we disconnect
from reality
when we sleep,
when we slip
into Reality,
when we become
everything at once.
This is no Comedy.
No. This
is the womb
of defect,
a Drama
for an earthquake,
or as hollow
as 21st century
refridgerators.
Listen. My lips
will not move
unless you
become
a chiselled-out statue.
I hope no one
will interpret
my speech
when you careen
out of control
to stop my
wristwatch
from operating.
Beating inner-electric
thyroid, you are
a fairytale & you
are breaking
the mold.
Your lips,
with a
talkative truth,
speak swordly,
I cannot believe this!
But I do.
With limited lips,
the mind
is drenched.
Heart of holly
-hocks. Grand
-fatherly types,
not clocks, beat
like drums.
I am a
lifelong resident
of indecisive
action, as if
I am securely
trapped inside of
a chambre à
quatre portes;
perfected missteps
involving confetti
& animation.
On the contrary,
this is funk stew,
all of it.
What else
shall occupy
my time
this late in the day
when I am
craving love,
aching for
a moment of risk,
of gamble,
to express
what lips
cannot hold,
transparent
remnants of
assuming
a Longing.
This, perhaps,
a film yet to be
viewed,
a language within
a language,
where the piper
plays a cold tune,
where I
will look for
odd characteristics
& quirks.
I will
find them myself
& the muscles
in my neck
will soften
as the baritone
grows louder,
as the orchestra's
grinding wheel
growls
as tough as
Malcom X's "Y",
encourages
the incidental
echoes of
my flaming hot
pepper-mouth
to burst through
our polarities.
I aim for
a destination.
Where are you
& why are you
not listening to me?
I apologize, I do,
like Plato
to Socrates.
I am your
Mister Potato Man
Poet Laureate,
hotter than
Buenos Aires air.
In another
geographical timeline,
maybe we were
Egyptian & we
ruled the night,
didn't we?
as if we were
comic book characters,
as if we
collected garlic
& lemon
& placed them
in takeout containers.
We sat
in our lavish deserts
watching the camels
graze by.
This was
our Baywatch.
Within the
palinodic garden walls,
we spoke
of childish things
but maintained
their level
of romance
the way a
Victorian hangman
tells his love
the sweetest
goodbyes;
sensitive to the subtle.
