Yellow Sheaves Beneath the Corpse of Melvil Dewey
Ants intoxicate lovers for hours.
By hours I mean years, mean life.
Cold fingers warm the coffee cup,
deafness rises in dust mites, slogs
ears that welcome the devil’s only tongue.
Figure a number for all reason. A
gedankenexperiment, the thoughts that fold end sleeves.
Here’s what’s left of my life. Here.
I long for the silence between the shelves, that holy state.
Jugular, wisdom regurgitates the sweet
kiss that makes both entrance and exit possible.
Love says the chiffon jukebox, sings the organic halcyon,
marry me into the system,
not soldiers of infinite chaos but
order dressed in funeral lingerie,
powdered cheeks and wrists ringed with neglected garlands.
Quick as the lazy brown fox.
Real as the dog jumping into a fire in time for a
solemn waking to brevity, the heavy industrial
tune the bones play with timbre
unlocking a truth so slim it’s transparent.
Violins know blood music. They play until
we believe the night might not end
x-rated. By end I mean not more. Not
yellowing pages dog-eared at passion with
zinnia petals to mark the spot.
Monkey Typewriter Theorem
The first just sits
on a stool and spins,
impersonates my Uncle E.,
sashays towards the earth’s
true urge. Another O’s
its mouth, launches fleas
into the vents.
is all this one knows,
or so he feigns.
Two in the corner,
See and Do,
nudge each other
and point towards me,
smirk. One shakes
its ass red. One
a dozen knuckle draggers
peanuts to mash
Most chitter cliches
about the lack
of proper greens
or press ripe rumps
against the two-way glass.
for dark rum
in plastic cups,
when refused. Genius
stenciled on cheap t-shirts,
All but one
who hunts and pecks
as if by luck
he might become