One Down, One Up


I guess I'm what you'd call big heart big motor—
an Arthur Schlesinger of interior monologues.
I wish old bedsprings didn't poke so much,
though at the same time I'd swear a freshly laundered core
of Kraut paraphernalia slithered off tentatively
as it were expecting a new-mown deity....

That's life, or a slice of it.
Anyway, the cross-section of the frontal lobe
sauteed in battery acid
has potential;
it has mucho mucho tom tom of Pony Express,
cascading badinage violation rhythms,
the ringing saw in the nightwood
expectorating staple remover time machine
so much aloha who's sorry now payback daddy.

They parade,
they always parade—
hetaeric communities of the long view,
pocketknife-forged signature more like sausage
than hayseed vasectomy bait shop
clarions in air mail parmesan
will be hip in the next Pleistocene.

I'd pride the loss of the throat-bone spatter
last Friday night for the old throatskin.
Their throats are neither wrung nor ransomed.
Simply I keep this face brightly lit
and the light in space
narrowly moving across the brain theater.