The Funky Monkey on My Back

I want extremities of you – each propagating
aching sweetness and each witty acid assiduity –
I’d eat your silly aimless jokes – which poke like very

little children, absently, at Christmas, through
their snap-and-crinkle wrapping on the floor – mildly
searching through the mess for more: so many small

and sour souls, like meager poems, strangling in
their overwrought and killing carapaces, vie for space –
retard your pace – and for a tiny virulence of moment

almost blot your numinosity of face – while you
in secret but complete dimensional exposure spy
upon the scene beneficently with a just-imaginable

grace – so full of light and humor that your scent
wafts like a rumor through the room to cause
involuntary swooning: you are flooding, looming in

my heart like the impossibility of art – divine life-blood
through human artery – a flow so suddenly a part
of me – so freely darting from your strange electric

mesh of being into something so completely freeing –
that to say one thing about it is to lack. Too abstract.
You are the funky monkey on my back.

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