Nov 132013
He prodded the planet for fun and profit, 
Rattled fusty vines for mustiest grapes 
To break like bubbles on his rouge tongue, 
Purplest Bacchus of the Garden State. 
The straw he sipped at dripped divinest dews. 
Around him argent clouds convened, 
Attending wetly at the cordial where he nipped, 
Cottony pulps of his wine-violet ideas.
A maker of the weather, he prepared 
Hurricanos in his heart, tornadoes torqued
From regretful tears, while he adroitly ducked 
Beneath streaked skies split with epic lightning
His own imagination dreamed and drew down. 

Of creation and of creation's pang
He was the singer, and of that terror sang.
This he did swinging amid his champagne dregs,
And from those dregs distilled the magic beans--
Grew tall, until all the rolling world below
Was his red rubber ball, gripped and peeled.
The sun between his rosy forefinger and sore thumb
He spun, and smiled as it twirled.

Here leaned a mountain, not a man. 
Great birds wheeled beneath his brambled brows. 
Waterfalls leapt from his chin in frisking drool. 
To sense a transparence within the clouds 
Like thunder swallowed, his big teeth illumined--
That was what he practiced;  his feet 
Fell away below to forest elf-boots, olive moccasins 
Softly clomping crimps of the shell-pink Palisades. 

Beyond the boisterous baying of day, he made, 
Mad with laughter, the very game he played: 
"Imagine reality," he cried to the crisp Atlantic 
Sweeping to his side, the she-sea upswelling frothily 
To fetch 'tween trident teeth the fatal bone, the poem,
Her impassive master had tossed to the Azores. 
Promethean lips imparted surpassing pearls
In hiccups, bubbing toward the clouds they blew
In monotonic dream-bubbles of cartoons;
His electric hair was flying fire, unreeling auroras 
From here to Delaware. 

                                      The poet is his world:
The vatic voice, his song assigned to wood or cliff
Indifferently, whole planets popped like gumdrops 
Into his manic maw and ruminated raw 
Like so much milky cud.

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