A circular muscle surrounds
all-things the Euthyphro dilemma, so
Hume is where the heart is
siphoned, swept up & away
like Plato inventing the first alarm
clock, a fleck touch
& a surface of whitelight
receptories in the Waking Hour.
Now, I say, crank up your soul, dear,
because the jukebox is still playing
like a late 19th century Phenom
who could sing with his sphincter.
Don’t be scared of poetry: don’t be
scared of where poetry may lead.
As with anything, it depends on one’s
druther, with thoughts to follow, like:
Do paramedics ever dislodge heads
from asses? Only ask in Poetics, bc
“NO ONE IS AT THE CONTROLS!”
No, no one, except the one
controlling the strings, controlling
the 8-ball, somewhere where the
sidewalk never ends, but Look,
I don’t want you to get offended
but weird things happen when
you’re dragging like a slug, baking
in the dragon-breathing summer sun
of a tightening yellow balloon knot
in the esophagus—deathly, like
some plutonic relationship
where your body, soul & mind
are pulled through clotted kinks
hammering you through the murk.
Perpetual chip on the shoulder?
Suspicion is never quiet?
Eyebrows raised, but licking
your lips is the contemporary way
to paint the perfect romantic picture
because Michelangelo was a minion
& should have lived in the Now
instead of the Then?
I am coming undone.
Secrets reveal themselves
in dark holes but not everything
has to be clandestine. Voices
trapped in jars that your ancestors
still feel. I am those jars
without the lids fastened.
all-things the Euthyphro dilemma, so
Hume is where the heart is
siphoned, swept up & away
like Plato inventing the first alarm
clock, a fleck touch
& a surface of whitelight
receptories in the Waking Hour.
Now, I say, crank up your soul, dear,
because the jukebox is still playing
like a late 19th century Phenom
who could sing with his sphincter.
Don’t be scared of poetry: don’t be
scared of where poetry may lead.
As with anything, it depends on one’s
druther, with thoughts to follow, like:
Do paramedics ever dislodge heads
from asses? Only ask in Poetics, bc
“NO ONE IS AT THE CONTROLS!”
No, no one, except the one
controlling the strings, controlling
the 8-ball, somewhere where the
sidewalk never ends, but Look,
I don’t want you to get offended
but weird things happen when
you’re dragging like a slug, baking
in the dragon-breathing summer sun
of a tightening yellow balloon knot
in the esophagus—deathly, like
some plutonic relationship
where your body, soul & mind
are pulled through clotted kinks
hammering you through the murk.
Perpetual chip on the shoulder?
Suspicion is never quiet?
Eyebrows raised, but licking
your lips is the contemporary way
to paint the perfect romantic picture
because Michelangelo was a minion
& should have lived in the Now
instead of the Then?
I am coming undone.
Secrets reveal themselves
in dark holes but not everything
has to be clandestine. Voices
trapped in jars that your ancestors
still feel. I am those jars
without the lids fastened.
