MY HOLY WATER IS UNHOLY

             Jack Spicer: “A poet is a time mechanic not an embalmer...”


My slippery brain has a whipped creamy mind of its own;
there’s not much of a science to it. 

I can predict the future & look like a guy that was
swallowing a beer at the same time.
That is what sparks offenses. 

More results for daily puke & slime
are like the advertent objections of political leaders,
or the science of ordering a frappucino,

which I suppose rings true for the saying that
one should remain close to anything that makes one glad
that one is alive. Squint-eyed,

my poems are like unholy water
that has been sprayed on a demon-possessed individual
that does no good, because holy water is about as real as
Martians

    or Poets

        or:

        What is a Poet? 

I’m here to fill that alien void with graphic scenes of Poets
in pursuit of poems that never come,
to make inroads for departing cats with a twist to it: 

Pavel Tchelitchew had a phobia of mice
so he comes back as one & dares Edgar Poe
to rise from the grave as a cat,

along with Ralph Waldo Emerson
to teach apes to write poems with everyday enchantment. 

First line:

    “O Rose, thou art NOT sick.”  

Why should not what is thus daily achieved on a small scale
be sick on a swing?

Spray the holy water upon the sick & it’s like loading a virus
onto your already-handicapped computer; your body
as ancient as the 14th Century

where Hafiz ran Middle East Oil Companies inside of his pen
that had minor aches & pains.

This Daily Bit of Beauty is just enough good conduct
to make one pass as a “serious person.”   O you
who believe! What do you believe?

The ducks line-up better than the stars,
ding-dong that says What’s wrong with me & why do I keep
doing this to myself? First impressions for human approval: 

Before I go to bed each night
I read all the minutes that pass as I go nowhere—
the end credits make Morpheus say,

“I dreamed a dream, & now that dream
still creeps me out in ways that I can’t articulate.”

I go nowhere because I’m everywhere,
the way my mindless mind is mindlessly minding,
with much strange melodies.