Aug 212011
 
 
Lie there, my art. -- Prospero

1
Ho-ho!  From out his party grave, up-popped
The skeletal self that Tenor'd tamed.
Dewy longings drift half-wet, in ziggurats,
Down the dirty sticks of his dry fact,
Lending a silver-inlay to his polar bones.
Desire sniffs for roses through groutless nose-holes
And musty wines slalom a gorgeless gob.
Nothing of the lover, of the brother
Lingers here.  I stick four mournful fingers
Through his clackers for a tongue, wagging
Idiot digits in mime Shakespearean.
No Yasunarian voice, Horatio, ensued.
No Ophelian sonnets rained in daisy-chains.
Lipless ivories inferred infernal grins.
Tongueless Tenor Semblance, disinterred,
Master-man and mirror-me, was DEAD!  And I?

2
I am no Poet-Frankenstein, evoking souls
From wounded earth.  For me, a hole is a hole
Is a hole.  Love caressed, love cupped, love cuffed
Suckles living teats, not this bony xylophone.
Still, I loiter here half-longingly and toe
Pale parabolas of a pelvis furred with mold.
I, too, shall one day come undone, un-
Buttoned before the mawkish gawkers in the wood,
Dining on no niceties but dusty praise.
And you, and you.  Bluets brush my boots,
Sans author in penless processional.
Tallied Tenor here, pure loss, is less and less,--
A condensate escaped in Gobi air.
What last farewell, or goodbye cry, can I 
Cachinnate for such luckless kin?  
Feral fate!  The day, the hour, is late. 


3
Though crass and cursed and cloistered
In a hole, my man of clay, who I made, 
Unmade me.  Iffy gift!  Solitude still knows:
To live our lithest days in sackcloth is a sin.
My vampire mirror blings, bingeing on blanks.
I miss the mischievous elf I myself had minted,
Wry coinage of a brain love-benumbed.
Impresario of puppets, piccolo fish
Waving in a world wigged with sideways seagrass,
I command my scarecrow scalawag, Tenor
(Whom I marched off to death, alas) a last
Resurrection reappearance imagineer.
Coffin-lid, crack!  Earth erupt and burp-up
Voodoo me, vanished voice and vair ermine.
Pffft!  And see, through misty mazy day,
In his water-wings and goggle-gear. . . .

 
4
"Irksome apparition!  Clavicle and skull
But prank the picked-out polychromes of life
More sullied dull. Pink is less pricked than pinky.
How can twanged canaries out-crow sepulchres?
Muddy mausoleums high-rise our tipping tropes.
No quip out-kids a skeleton's ghastly grin."
So I solemnized in my preacher's best.
But cut-rate Tenor in his rotted tux
Retailed another fable, made gritty
By eternal Time's half-sandy clasp.
"Birds of paradise in their jungle mung
Whistle fluent waltzes more queer than square.
When kisses come twitting between the stars,
Their ache is more than mausoleums are.
The softest-rose of live lips out-quips
Clown-corpse midgets and their brazen cars.  The curds 
Of life are sacred, but only as we sip."

5
So I sat in puzzlement complete.
Head-hanging, feet-dangling, I weeped.  I kicked
Spic hobnails against the grave's gouged walls.
I did not want to hum, or ham, the mournful measure
A mealy mouth had found.  Must I have more to say?
To do, to be?  Was wishing up to me?
Argent star and pentecostal ghost!  It was.
The prolog past was mere evaporate because.
I zipped upon the slipping ice, slouch-hatted,
As I myself alone, floe to floe.
Tenor was my made-up man, my solo ghost;
Of his fragile form, I was holy host.
Vital tailor!  Sledding immortality but slips
Us in our heart-stitched skins again.
Thus we see, beyond Death's batty beam,
Is is brighter than the vim of seems.

6
How, in all this claustric Ought, ought I
To utter and confess my consummate 
"Ow to Joy"?  Life is pain, and fidgets 
As it sings.  Dr. Formaldehyde in his lab-coat, 
Peering in, thumbs an icy stethoscope to quiz 
All coughs, all crimes.  What Rabelaisian 
Parable am I in?  What sly reply does this 
Inquisitive pin in my inflated thigh 
Giggle to confide?  None, none.
All my splendid spillages funnel down to One:
"Paradise is simple as the simple dew.
Blond Life, raw, unadorned, 
Is apple enough when we feel adored.
--Settle quick the pipping kettle, Kate,
And kiss the kittens twice.-- Unintended 
Heaven whistles wettest, when we forget

Ourselves."