oh but i've heard
you amidst the airplanes and roaming
cars droning by; you
such brave-petaled rose amidst
a bright garden, where
the crisp laughter concealed
within a perfect tear
is as evident as
the fact that sunshine awakes in the east. and
all those secret chambers
and closed-captioned interzones
of mental agitation we call i
hold no substance
when facing the heart. yes,
oh yes, all the shattered bits amount
to endless space and
infinity is
a dish best served fresh
off the vine. we are drunker
now than ever, drunk now
for this ever, drunk
on the sweat of this hard-boiled reality,
so tender at the core. this is where
the art is born; the very art that breezes with the seasons
and tides of that which cheap science tends to call life;
yet this art is clearly, in all blazing evidence, little more (if
ever such phrase could make sense, given the ineluctable immanence of fractals within fractals
without a hint of reservation or things designated to time) than her earrings,
which are the sun, and the sum of distance
from my fingers to her earlobe,
that from her hands to my gorged
sex, for a radiant giggle of constellations,
and then a storm and then another. and then
one, and that is to say i, so to speak, acts precisely
in accordance to the mutant nature
of circumstance and the tint and hue of space. and
no, we are not actors
in our lives, we do not
play the part; we merely
tear apart, at the seams of suchness, and give up
and give up on that seemingly so brilliant glitter
of the fake, and no we do not
break; we solely
rise to the occasion.
and come next morning
we pick up the mess
and gather our clothes from the laundry room.
