Lugubrious thalamus, "on" the nerves,

when certain individuals enter into
my atmosphere, my florid gravimetric.
    High sky, yellowable uterine,
demonstratable allergen. When the blood
begins to flow, I'm like a Mamaluke,
ancient castles with florid flowers
of oleanders, dolce far niente, narrow
nasal, nature-fakers like Al Gore.
   Where is that obese zombie fumbling
off to? You cite information regarding
the fact that Humans have Burning Questions
about circus contortionists, but leave me be,
I just want to hear the violin & piano--
beaux art--hidden within the yashmak
of my apelike limbo.
   My erstwhile disdain for spittle-flinging
mouthbreathers is not quite adequate,
for who else can be this sizzingly happy?

___________________________________________

Sunset remains the same, the tilted earth,
the slanted autumnal sky.

My eyes mistake nothing.
The book in front of me is white & red.

Maybe, just maybe,
I'm the president at this moment

reading from a teleprompter,
except that I am reading my thoughts

as if they were significantly expanded;
grand architecture in a weary pathos.

Underwater, at sunset, the fish
feel less tempted, so they think.

Tempted fish, only those that resist
are happy; the other fish,

they meet their destiny with a snag.
Reeling, ranting, this is what poetry is!

the way nostalgia barks up
my eternal tree, exits out of me, enters

into another memory that I have yet
to run into, but is soon to be revealed

where even the wind cannot reach.
Remembering certain girls, like the wind,

a frizz, a fragile gleam in their sparkle.
I have always wanted to say to each of them:

"I am not supposed to know your secrets
but your eyes keep revealing them to me."

Snag! baseless substitutions of reminiscing,
like substituting color, the way a school bus

drives by, or was it only the bright yellow sun
running laps? Or a starry sky reminding me

of reaching into an old, fragile jewel box
with eyes closed, feeling for the spores

of a time long past. These thoughts free me
from an atmosphere containing oppression,

containing an always-aching mother--
back-aches for the feverish. And here,

I lay out the "slaughter rule" & kiss
another day goodbye.