Yes, I have held
the Platonic Egg-beater, it whirs
like ten thousand diligently oiled
cicadas. That it's never beaten
actual eggs is the sadness I feel also
for the Armchair that has eased
no real arms, as the Tampon
from which all tampons are descended
has absorbed no blood, none of the Forms
have done an honest days work
and they know it, sitting around
in their glass case of Ideas. You look
beautiful in your hoop ear rings.
Let's keep this from the Circle,
nor taunt it with the basketball hoop,
the hoop skirt, hoop and holler. Life
doesn't go around but away,
the only birthday cakes we get
have fallen from grace, how else
deliver the sweet burning down? Poor Love,
never being hung up on, broken up with,
chucked for one more match
or moon-struck, more agape with Agape,
how cherished the nicks in the knick-knacks,
the fuck-ups become. Forever? I feel
in my knees eternal's by half too long.
I want the goodbye, the all-gone,
not now, mind you, or now, I'm sure whenever
the no-more comes, I'll fight it tooth
and whatever before slipping
once more into the breach
of the imperfect what-not, into the be
Bug-humming's fog shrouded, wettish twitterpating
of ectos. My right hand lifts a glass
in the "Roosevelt Hotel" of my consciousness:
to you, club-footed morning. The invisible man
has invisible blood, if you cut him
he bleeds clarity all over the good rug. To wound,
wend, to bend light, be strong as star: clean
your plate: defenestrate. Smash
is good gab, secret code of shatter. Matters:
something. No one's told me yet. Smells like
yesterday here, which had a faint odor
of the day before that. I'll wear a bright shirt:
live as painting, flower, hours defrock with "love you,"
"love you not." Make up my mind? As I go, kid, a work
in lack of progress: some minutes take a year.
WHAT MAKES AMERICA GREAT
Terror terror on the wall: whose the fascist
one of all? Sounds so 60s, when I was born
a Capricorn. My sister sang: "the FBI
will find you, they'll gag you and they'll bind you."
Oooga booga. And here we are: phone's
bugged: some cricket's in it. Laws
are moon-made, to the chant, terror-this
and terror-that. We know the code: nine eleven.
Know real from ga-ga heaven: ours: Christ's white robes,
red grip, Van Dyke. But a billion "nine elevens"
equals silence: meaning's hushed when logic's
bludgeoned. "If I had a thermo-nuclear hammer,
I'd yammer in the mo-or-ning." Please. Our primary
exports are: freedom of assembly, speech, porn
of gathering proud, loud and naked in: dream, wish.
Naive's to realpolitik as tickle's to impale.
As sleep's to shun. I for one am naif, traif's
the eating of impure thoughts. Swallowing, say,
"killing's necessary evil in service of good."
Head-bender, that, like cutting off the hand
that feeds your back scratching to mine.
No man's pure island, I've stood on a head
and tried to run my fingers through the sand
of his hair. Greasy. Gross. How about
this no-kill zone: if it's ever blue above,
or hot, or cold, if round's the shape of the ground
from the long perspective, you know: earth. Eventual
hearse and basically stuck to sun. No where
to run but burn. We can slap each other: silly. Fun:
how red skin gets. The winner: whose cheek most turns.
To the rooster who thinks it's morning
all day I take my Deskstar IBM harddrive.
Tom owns the rooster, has never seen
something from the inside of a computer
or Athens and we talk about the Acropolis
being visible from everywhere in the city.
I take a picture of the rooster
standing on the hard drive and crowing
to wake us from complacency I think
of saying to Tom but decide it's trite
to feel the moments are butterflies.
The rooster pecks at the harddrive.
Tom's wife Ellen may or may not
be coming back from her mother's
with or without the kids, Lucas and Alice.
I'm feeling I should help if I have
any Francis of Assisi's blood in me
the rooster escape before Ellen
decides and the rooster's suddenly
therapeutically hushed and neck-broke.
Tom's been to Mallorca and looks
from our crouches off at what I guess
is Mallorca as he holds the harddrive
against his face because its cool and full
like a dead man's head of words no one
will ever hear again. He passes me
this dead man's head and I leave
to see if a horse I know a little bit
will stand still so I can take it's picture
with a harddrive on its back as the rooster
tells three o'clock to get out of bed.
© Bob Hicok