Golden Mouth
All our pieces and these are subunderground, touched by human compassion, touched I mean untouched by heaven’s splendor. If heaven held a fashion show the spotlights would be copiers, making all us others: we’re beyond inside. We’re in an office of the sky.
Walking Manhattan island, high, double-lighted, entranced by traffic down and up the avenue, by ultravisibility, ambitious as the rest of us, I tiptoe with the rest of us - past nightlights and jammed roads, stuffed dogs, and look up - other world in the sky.
Underground, we’ve dreaming of penthouses; the University of Destiny; we’re dreaming of leaning back; shoes off and beautiful views; dancing girls with advanced degrees, sometimes on smooth streets and sidewalks - the eternal lobby. We’re aching waiting for fame, changing names, allaying lies and allying lays, extemporizing hypogene rhymes etymologically inspired and - from the diaphragm - chrysostomically laughing - the All-Laughing, educating ourselves like Demosthenes with rocks in his mouth. Keeping it real for Momity.
Lung of the sea
Scene: Moonlit, woodlit trees.
Branches’ blow skitters leaves.
Over foliage, telephone lines lead.
Scene: Backlit by mulch fire,
Reflected in the sea near the wires,
Telephone poles lisp out black earth,
Scene: Evergreens clean the air.
Branches creak, needles shiver, everything breathes.
Dew like a moist mucus membrane everywhere.
He moves voice-like through bunches of trees. Whistling, ichor everywhere in the air. Ciliated epithelium breathing deeper. Like splinters.
Digging in by kicking with his toe, he breathes deep through my mouth and nose. Cold mixing with the whiskey. Air so clean filling my chest like light - he there in the middle of hill’s lung, framed by sky’s outlines so sharp and stars so bright, the sound everywhere of breathing.
Black Mazda parked between the road and forest
in the shadow of the trees.
Metal breathing back.
And back
And back
Until there he is
Inside glass-metal quietus, waiting for the key.
pimp olympics on Mt. Olympus
every 5 yr flow
Poppa Octopus hugs Doctor Octagon
(but doesn’t really mean it)
then swipes the mic
For all the polyps, proto-olympic pimps panhandling for Man in suppurating uppercase, behold penthouse balconies, coerced orgiastic panoplies ply panoptic cyclorama of city’s byzantine labyrinthine pleated spool plied thread clew –mind -- call me Theseus, Theresa. No, Teresius. Leave a message, please. Don’t pity me.
Ride wights down 190 loughter caugh n’ tatternauf can’t anymore loamfoam gohome moan groan o! Lo, under underwhere is underoo underwear wear it, bear. Care, bare all, fare well, tell all, not tall tales but be real and well. Leave fell men, dare fate, fall, fallen, yell. Go to hell. Come back on the third day, torn (love lied) or shorn delilah-like on the dahlias (the desk of varnished norwood under my one arm, atm yonder)
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poemeleon
Eric Gelsinger