Friday, May 4, 2012

Poetry As A Form Of Existential Filibuster

My face is in labor it’s giving birth to a nose
And a washcloth which reminds me it’s time to write a poem
In praise of memory and return the ankle
I borrowed from someone last night in Costa Rica
Which is odd since I’ve never been to Costa Rica
As for memory let us say it is a giraffe
With its head above the clouds and glistening from the rain
There is a chromosomal syntax that remembers how
To create living beings inflammations of words
The color of desire. I live in a zip code
So full of pathos that even the boat propellers weep
With oil and a huge blue star emerges on the horizon
Soaked in quicksilver blisters. Words soaked in meaning
Engender caterwauls of humid light. Sometimes I can feel the air
Has the ability to decipher itself as a form of glass
Tarantula tapdancing on a thin blue line
Of turmoil. The mind of a ghost can pull a thought
Through the breath of a clarinet and come back out
As a particle of meaning wounded by quiet. One day I hope
To understand reality with the same level of intimacy
As the interrelatedness of all living things. The way a vase
Sits on a table paying attention to itself
Is truly remarkable. I can distill a parable
Or two out of this rhythm right away
And have it delivered on your doorstep tomorrow
By two o’clock, which is my favorite hour
Of day. Meanwhile I need to talk to the tailor
About his appendix. The fusion of electrons
Inside the scrotum of a bank manager
Create red giants of wallpaper that are scandalously
Similar to the curtains in a New Hamphsire motel
Off Highway 89. No one knows why. But this is the
Generosity of art. It shows the world
At one with itself, even when performing its magic
In the scrotum of a bank manager. Many philosophers
Postulate a plurality of modes of being. It would be
Quite misleading to give the impression that
All of those philosophers who thought minds
And their activities have something to do
With the existence of works of art
Also thought that this means that works of art
Were somehow less real than, say, moonlight. Idealists
Invert this hierarchy. Reality is built with teacups.  
This is why creative expression takes place in a cosmochemical
Igloo called Divertimento, and is tied to the laws of poesy.
I want to inhabit your chemicals. Because it amuses me
To do so and I feel circumstances in my legs
That sometimes cause me to dance. I have a warm eye
And a red rag, and with these things I will start a plywood garden
And bear the armada of my lips to you. There is the thinness of
To consider, and large azaleas consommate as paper
Creating a paradise of curbs and kayaks. The mountains
Are bigger than your laundry. You must study walking
In the underworld. Colors are notoriously unreliable
But you can always catch an elevator
In which to sing a Steve Winwood song
Dear Mr. Fantasy play us a tune something
To make us all happy. If a sound is working then it must
Flare into garlic and bring us hope and curlicues.
The splended blue talents of the yucca
Might be considered to be a poem
And it is grand to do so. This is me
Kissing your jewelry. I am assuming that your avocado
Fits my eyes. My face is unanimous in its arteries
And hre comes my nose guided by an earthquake
If only to smell your pantry and come to fruition
In an old house in Texas thermodynamic as dirt.
Poetry is sometimes so blatantly autonomous
It will never win a prize. The fetus sweats
Among its doorknobs, and when the arcades of the chest open
The delirium is enough to sustain a belief in tenderness.

No comments: