Mirrors Mirroring Mirrors

I feel embarrassed to be feeling any embarrassment. About anything. Including my mushroom chair which, frankly, is a nucleus of determined prissiness. I’m reminded of the sapphire poetry of wasps. Their hard colors & fulminations. The slide of a sheet of paper across the desk as an impregnable reaction enchants the party with its fuselage of tongues. Look at them, flapping away like there’s no tomorrow. Which there isn’t. There’s only this present, this numbness I’m coaxing into the brain where it can do some good & elevate the sanctity of idleness to a summit of material ineffectiveness. Dare the storm to support your patterns. It will ignite you to podiatry.

The panacea lifts a scorpion & we drink to the pale air. Genitals need a little summer now & then. The carrot is heating my stomach with a frankness pertinent to the vegetable world, & this makes me suck more time from the well of space, where time ripples in a fateful placenta of stardust. We can feel it vibrate in the warm amenities of our bones. We scramble around thinking about getting a blinking tibia to give us a nucleus of highland rubber. This gets reflected on the almanac plumbing as a paper wasp brings us memories wrapped in a jeweler’s hat, & we stand there gazing at a universe as it wanders through our fingers looking for textures & loose change. 

There’s a mirror in front of me & a mirror to my left. There’s a mirror in my myrrh & a little myrrh in the mirror. The mirror that mirrors me best is the mirror of error. Errors are the air I breathe to find the right light to write on the vapor of the paper that drifts in a Berlin of glittering mirrors. The juror looked at the killer in the mirror & saw a murder in the curtain. The brighter the silver the quicker the shimmer that stirs in the mirror. Scissors & quivers & rivers in a mirror. Figures & dinners & millers in a mirror. Mirrors mirroring mirrors are what words are. Writ of error. Reign of terror. And the dribbles are scribbles that wiggle in trickles. Sang the surfer in a fervor.

Open the lightning in Polynesia. Tap the clock. Let the white ice overflow. Exhibit the remaining capsules. Unbalance the dry pain & let it walk into the palatial syntax of dragons & fire. Decipher this life as a marathon, a give & take, the slosh of water in a bucket. And make that bucket glorious. Make that bucket a preface. Make that preface a constitution. And sleep.

Wake me when we reach Neptune. Until then, I want to dream. Sleep & dream of rhinoceroses on the savanna. Of Renaissance monasteries in a time of vendettas & passion. Of sapphire ants at the periphery of the holy. Of a woman’s hands building a fire on a piano. Of duty & pleading & how pleasant it is to drift in space. The masterpiece that is succotash. The oilcloth that is cows. The nucleus of a plummet which is a dishcloth. That awful woman from Fiji. The bookcase & lamp that sang in the corner without making a sound. The Queen of Denmark & her quarrelsome parrot. All these things that are scientifically unmeasurable & yet glow into nightclubs & stars.