No more demanding a griddle-cheeked maxim than Let’s
Let’s
thrum from a
shrunken knot
some semblance of
Mozart blown from a yodeler’s nose,
like the lemon-skinned moon gropes
over these tippling oak leaves, caught
like a gunpowder dahlia slowly exploding, like
fishscale shrapnel snagged at the bristling
chin of some slavering woodwose summons
the symphonies filigreed deeper in Overstreet
Falls than even the tongues of Niagara—Let’s
watch while Clay,
like a svelte Ming vase
licked back into wrinkling greenware,
tickles his cigarette cherry
in impish ventriloquy
into a filigreed titter of Devil Woman,
albeit as though little Marty
Robbins had never
escaped; hear the call for rain, like
cancan dancers might milk of the guts
of a velveteen bunny some burpling lanolin,
glibly diminish in ticklish mist, the mist
collecting at Clay’s shrill slits, like light
curls into a pewter dish—Let’s
feel for chords in the floorboards,
take your pick now,
pick at the water-logged locks and, glumly,
discover your plumbing was
bald macaroni and
jellied gemelli seized into a
finger
trap
trachea, check out
that u-bend, there
no, here,
and here
and here. Now, what do you feel there?
what does that pulse plumb
deep in the gelatin back bone,
deep in the horsehair vagus nerve of
everything singing as
clear as your sobbing
sink—
Let the butts accrete
in a sturgeon’s skeleton,
skin it with spittle stretched fatter than yaks,
and then
crack that worm-wrought dollop of hard tack
into some worm-slim crack in the back of the
Gateway Lofts, and let the whole city shake
what gilt barnacles cudding the ash into ashes—Let’s,
now, yes, now—Let’s.
what gilt barnacles cudding the ash into ashes—Let’s,
now, yes, now—Let’s.
