Saturday, January 25, 2014


In your private cosmic omphalos –
hot navel of your secret world --
resides the florid sly débâcle
of a Delphic Oracle, whose wealth
consists in unpredictable emissions
bent on counteracting your resistance
to the patently miraculous.

Fractal wisdom emanates in threaded
fumes from it, resumes the bit
about the thing you think
could never be, but is:
siphoning the fizz inside the bubble
of your consciousness: a slug
of the importunate, unfortunate

or fortunate. You’ve got it wedged into
a jello-gray brain curl of self, seeping
onto yet another shelf of the forgotten:
sliding mysteries beneath a misbegotten
spotlight where they quiver, wide-eyed,
thrown, alone. Everything inside you
queues up to be known.


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