O

Her stomach is pregnant
with soft masses of cloud
-like feathered lushness

of touch-cushion bliss is this.
Q is her O with a belly-button,
uninverted, arriving from

notspooning, but more than that,
& what happened is
like sticking a fork in it

sitting at a fork-in-the-road
at night by the only light for miles
(a lightpole’s distinctive oneness—

it’s illumination nearly deaf-dim—
it chants yellow-paled songs—
bats swooping amongst the insects

by the armloads in canned-heat
of summer-sizz) where
the diamond-staggering

stars make a fuss over lovers.
My stomach is a nervous-habitable
warring-against-the-soul-type

mechanism in a plexus
of red-pink neon-fiery impulses,
yet forgiving I am, loving

newness, like re-booting
a pinball machine
kind of freshness,

instamatic energizers,
an upper that soothes the soul,
losing the gut-rot

where intuition churns like
shipwrecked wood-fragments
splintered throughout,

scribbling like pencils into
the ocean’s center (the ocean, full
of centers, middle-grounds), where

only the inner-lead smears,
but I babble like brooks
& what matters most is that

no matter what sops me up,
my mind is unceasingly pregnant
with words, ideas, visions

immortalized in the enamel of
mythology? I’ve inherited
the aesthetic for a future

skinny grave as the world yells out
to me ruthless slimy diatribes, as I
sit & listen to it with deaf ears

like a dead philosopher.