You Aren't Losing Much

Tonight a corpulent conundrum will corrupt

all claim you may have thought you had to linearity –

disrupt your dreams with shamelessly eruptive schemes –

and rid you of the vanity of sanity. I wouldn’t worry.

You aren’t losing much. You’ll like his touch.










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Nobody’s Related Here

Nobody’s related here

to anybody else.
Well, biologically we may
have clambered off
concatenations of some
ever-burgeoning
collective self, but once each

small inimitable singularity
jumps from that shelf –
well, here we are in tandem
only from the random
chance of bumping
into one another. Something
kindred – brother, mother,

lover – seems to hover –
maybe filter through: perhaps
an atavistic yearning to find
someone who can contrast
concepts of a “me”
with notions of a “you.”.
Expect complexities galore

when there are three –
which seems to happen
all too frequently.
God help us (which he never
does) if we should have to
deal with more. Welcome,
dears, to History.







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Well, Shoot Me the Fuckaroo Down

“The Socratic method

was the first

unassailable

codification of relativism,”

he said, 

“ever after beheading

ostensible

proofs

of the absolute.”

“Well, shoot me

the fuckaroo down,”

I replied

with a frown

and he did 

and I died

and apparently now

I reside

on an opposite side.

.

The Mud-Brown Id

Two exhumations

from the mud-brown Id
exhibited themselves today

as if to say
the mud-brown Id
was going strong:

and if we thought
the mud-brown Id had gone
away, well, we were wrong.









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Looking Down

Looking down, the fear

is that the magnitude
of making out the Sphere

will tax their fragile
certainties: that these
two golden sentries 

will miss something central
which, if missed, would
shoot a hiss through

our Existence – as if from
an angry sentient snake
intent on ruining the odds.

The problem was, there
were no gods to save
the day or night –

merely nervous guards
whose imperfections lent
inevitable risk to every

flight we might decide
to take. Existential flu
comes often in the wake

of what they haven’t seen:
we shake involuntarily –
a private psychic

earthquake for which
we can’t name a cause.
No one knows the laws.








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Spring Roll

Two heads are said to be better than one,

but being two-faced robs the soul.
So how do I find some acceptable fun?
How do I get to be whole?

I know what I’ll do.
I’ll eat a spring roll.
I’ll cut it in two.









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What I Wouldn’t Mind

I wouldn’t mind communion

that illumined someone else’s heart
sufficiently to make it seem
the necessary part of knowing
what we each had left to do.

And if it felt contextually, texturally,
sexually hot? Well, I would like that, too.

If only I were dropping hints
to something like a “you” I didn’t have
to dress up in quotation marks.

There isn’t anyone in view.








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