1-2-3

The one thing I’m asking of my mind,/to be able to manufacture miracles cheaply/and place them alongside my lesser thoughts/It’s a commonplace quarry,/a jazz mouth demon instrument,/it shows itself only in southern kingdoms,/flimflamming all others who rely on disease. Two big boys, they call themselves Gemini,/met stone eyesight from those with fatigue/Simians under streetlights, police intervening/gleaming badges, narrow hatbands,/ put a halt to the latest melee or habit./I long for a grove where soft fruit grows,/neck and neck with my rivals, caught up in grapes./I was fruit itself, tender for someone,/I understood the trappings of a lady in grace. The two transistor, the alkali summer, backyard gravel of 1961. Put an end to this rampage, two cars for each home,/ in mirrors that speak loudly, and glisten throughout./A coverlet, a bedframe, /a room with my brother/a room with a view./Familiar lady, rising in robes;/a grace so foreign/as to greet the world face to face. Water to wine, since now we have everything,/leering at others as we walk down the street,/wondering why birds die to bind up our wounds/we wait for the day we can bind up our feet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s