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Inverse
Lately I go
unnoticed,
dazed in the brush-fire of hashed cliches,
lost in the
pyre high axioms
and moulding soliloquies as another day
ticks the
hour on the face of a clock
which makes time and plans
without me.
To stand wary
of some unsuspected prank
or clog whose perfunctory obstacle
streams
down Escher puzzles of raindrops.
A rubric of Moebius images
have
yet to take notice
that the trees do not stir,
or the second hand
pause
and this infernal trick of shadows
sharpens and draws
as
we slip the mask on.
Sixty
Minutes
Locks and
tendons and yawing gaps
creep slipshod to a wedded plunge
of
sentimental bliss and empathy.
Someone feels for you,
(hung and half
reels for you)
over inviolate curves,
trapped between the walls
of hip and world,
the lower strata - upper strata fantasy.
Nature could
dare steal back;
so sweet a thing could flourish,
seize all hope
beyond recrimination.
Someone gives for you !
the illusion grandeur
takes to you,
between sixty seconds
of sixty minutes
one
could fall in love.
For the hour
has sparse
left its minute dangling
past the moment
past the
watch on your wrist,
another takes to you
at equidistant points
between porcelain and chin
over nacre smooth teeth
and haunting
eyes.
One could
collapse into rain
huddled over mud-slick earth,
over flesh and
loving,
over uncensurable pain
rewound to a shower
of breath
and lips
that plant an old crop,
tills a new field,
sews a new
way.
Cedron,
Uzza, Eden
You are the
apple
the whole damn garden !
The mystical fount between Sufi and
soul,
addressing...addressing...
the question you've asked,
go
ahead, take a bite,
let its rind hard ephermeral
be heaven and hell,
let this new skin
smooth and taut over its fleshy pulp
and
porridge-like matter
spill this paradise.
Compromise,
barter, settle the dispute
with guile half-learned,
love's half
embrace,
life's clumsy ruttings
of childish sex
is half the
conjugal, half.
You are the
catacomb, the succubus, the Djinn,
but go ahead, take a bite,
let
its opaque meal fill your gullet,
let its fruit of apron and fig
slide down, down past
the stomach's guilt ridden lining,
down past
the lie of our guessing
what's past its pit. | 
