Ätthögar. Dessa finnas hos oss i stor myckenhet.

Yup. Two more poems for feasts. One written casually to a cup of coffee this fine morning, the other in a crowded lecture hall prior to my ridiculous Anthro 100 lecture.

•§•

A speckled line.
A roto-glossary of people who are more delightfully self-conscious than me.

Buildings are funny thoughts.
Immersed so thoughtfully in shape and line, but towering, relaxed so thrown against the sky.

A decadent end to all foreign travelers without leather pocketbooks.
An end to all decent and righteous folk with numbers of fingers that differ from the more commonly accepted value of ten.

Motors crossed with butterflies, who could resist?
The oily trappings of the steam-coal youth, blessed across the wildest rivers.

And realize that with speak and fall one hundred million ladybugs and rainbows are draining from my goblet.
One hundred-eighty thousand ear-piercing octaves bending through crevasses and cracks of distant walls.

A missile, a pony, a bead weaver, a grass cleansing mechanism, a lightbulb.
Three-quarters of the day is done, noodles and furballs line the sidewalks.

People use umbrellas. Who needs umbrellas?

Smelling my way towards infinity, shifting my feet for a better view, right behind you.
I’m dancing but not quite seeing it on the horizon.
You could realize a moment too late that there’s a kingdom of spiders and brainfreeze waiting on the doorstep.
You could realize.
You could masquerade at half-past doomsday with a clavinet, three donuts and the goldfish-baggie you won at the state fair.
You could masquerade.

•§•

A dreamlike colloidal suspension of thought and memory.

Inert swirling patterns of light and color dissolved down to the tiniest particles of tension and wile.
Of the 187,576 hairs connected to my scalp at this present moment exactly 4
have the nerve enough to confront
said lip-biter,
said imaginary lighter of fuels,
said crimson-stained daydream of souls flickering to flipped
switches down stairs and hall,
ten breaker boards, one hundred fifty-nine speaker cables, ten-thousand scoops of light initiation locations,
each one tied delightfully to my eye,
each one tied in co-parallel bunches, alligned in perfect angles of patterned ethos and magic that terminates at optic nerve.


Or does it continue on to pierce the brain - painless, quick - the skull becomes a vessel filled to mirrored brim.

A yawn, a system failure, once more delighted, ten eons hence is won.

•§•