Sunday, April 22, 2018

In Secret Off the Grid

I can't believe what something’s done!
Objects correlate – words are flesh – freshly
framed in disinhibitedly-hued voluminous
exuberance – all in sudden familiarity, as if
constituents of a centrality had just been sieved
like gold bits out of rapids, inviting disparately
faceted anomalies of bling to spin around
the coalescing orb, ribbon it like Saturn’s rings.
Some unspeakability now combs and patterns
this into the singing thing a lucent poem brings
you home to. I daily step away from it, entirely
to come back to exult in the results of what
I’ve had now to accept is a reality: from which
apparently ensues exactly the decor I never knew
I’d yearned for on a kitchen table, hallway wall,
bedroom bookcase, bathroom shelf. My New York

City magic place provides the only space I've ever
comprehended comprehensively: who stumbled
on this wealth, this pelf, this unsuspected 

evidence, this perfect proof and exercise of self?
Cacophony excised, disharmony relieved,
impossibility achieved, in secret off the grid.
Ego in Handelian accord with Id.


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