Someone mentioned that today the world was a cliché

To me it seemed just like any other, with maybe a touch more gray

Though fewer were about, preparing for the sleigh or perhaps to honor Yahweh

I thought about the moment and about my loved ones and friends,

As some thought it hilarious, as others pondered the end

And the moment came quietly ,with attentive thumps for the now to tend

Each sense focused, each twitch of the clock in tune

Each with the air of knowing the all of Claire de Lune

That minor strain, delicate and dim, to which none are made immune

It was the sound of the small birds that broke the inward delve

And I followed their song to the sky as they went about like elves,

For no deathly pale hung on the noon of twelve, twelve, twelve.

What a lonely friend is the moon.

Full or dim she hovers each night,

Loyal.  True, even when low and blue.

So dear, yet in orbit alone.

Wondering the love pangs of stone,

She shares her tears as rolling tides.

Butterflies are hope
Nature's random clues proving
We are not deceived

Balloons

Look...smiles on a string
Joy...captured in full color
Shocked...I let go.

Half-shadows and darkened rooms
Are the cubbies and closets in which I dwell
They are large enough to contain whole worlds
Yet are filled with chair after empty chair
I could fill them with more than just likeness and remembrance
Instead I reign over my silent kingdom
Politely receiving those who stumble in
After accidentally opening the wrong door.

You curve our love
Like a tattooed vase
A mythic tale
Made perennial
Our scenes, our frills
As art for gazing
Fixed by glazing
The passion of clay
That you reach for
To hold fresh bouquets

Halloween Cahoot

Clowns carouse carelessly
On streets drunk with insane
Dandies dance while dainties
Bare bosoms unabashed
Tempting nosferatu
To clinking, "na zdravi!"
The nocturnal awake
Levity drawn out with
Multi-colored levin
And beats exhaling mad
Benevolence.  The King
watching with wonderment
Revels the rabble's reign.

When they go away
The days are not days
And the nights are voids
To be crossed on sloops of scotch
Each awakening surreal
Until the first breath
Reminds the soul that
It has been dragged
From red to gray
Along the pavement
The injury is permanent
And the world moves without its magic
It has never been clearer
This place is not a home
It is a hostile hostel
For youthful spirits
With nowhere else to go

The wheels were made of iron
Attached to a creaky old frame
A solid meal mule rolling
Decades of fifty and twenty-five pound feed bags
Today it wheeled me
Up and back along wheelworn planks
Powered by an ancient man
I instantly shone as the center of attention
The center of the store, the town and the solar system
Nodding their satisfaction were the other creaky venerables
Watching as Saturn gave Apollo
His first ride across the heavens
On an old wooden feed chariot

My Date with a Caterpillar

From goblet wine whispers whirl
A pain on full display, raw
The hid creeper crawling out
And gripping fear for fall, cry
A blessed urge to fly...fly

What tempo the rain
That beads and lingers before
A long glissando

Reflect the world?
I cannot reflect the world.
I deflect, redirect it.
I move as stealth, unseen through the air, surface and below.
I am the biologique until pinged
Shaking the hull of the world and every sailored soul within.
I am the gap the universe must traverse,
The unmused singularity,
Somebody else's problem.
Immortal until born,
I presage rot
I am the birth of doom.
I skip through desolation
I dance through fiefs of fumble.
I swim through spectacles of secret suffering.
I cry at cherry trees
And laugh at rats
With rubato from Adlestrop.
The three pointed star has blinded me.
The crown's coruscating carbon
Edifies my mind's own patois
Piercing the shadow clouds
With cathedral clarities,
A harvest the beast must endure
And yet cannot consume
Because I have no tongue.
I can only nourish through absorption
In still, shorn silence
Save for the nasally exhausts of thought-breath curling over the deep.
Who dares to dip a toe in that cauldron?
Who dares to bathe in the root,
That basin of tears
That pail of crocodile swamp
To, half-drunk and quivering,
Stir the i
From its sequestered curse
And bless its reverent vices
Giving a menacing body to a sauntering thought,
Limbs to smear its blood.
They say they found a skeleton
Writhing between the walls
Who leaves the trench from time to time
To tremble with tenderness
That which must be leaped and sung.

The fish are speaking Cantonese
Repeating themselves and staring
Mouths moving until they are blue
Or yellow or gold or orange
Pleas of "please" from saam such as these

Creative destruction is her specialty
Physical, mental, moral
I survive, but not as me
Am I and who
And when will this person slip away?
Will it be a blaze of thunder and glycerin,
A hooded decapitation
Or a slow rot on an everyman cot
Only such a small nick from her shrapnel
Bled away my spirit's virtue
Where was I hit?
I am resolved
Not to even learn my name this time
For it is, but a focus for her rage
And a mortal score for her to keep

My heart is Mars
A red orb in my chest
The ancients called, "god of war,"
For red and bright and passionate it was.
Dry it is now and dusty
With only some occasional magnetism
Not enough for an atmosphere
To enchant joy and heat.
It becomes a brittle rock each night.
Some claim to see evidence of departed life
Or hold out hope for a few mites
That friction might lightning strike into something alive.
"Look," they say at this surface scar or
That sunken crater that threw chunks of red matter into a vacuumed void
Surely it is alien, proved.
What strange life was held in its clutches.
They like to take pictures, write fiction
Speak of daydreamed visits
And proclamate promised futures,
But it is only the rovers who are loyal
They who come and stay.

I tread through Terra's troughs
See how she has no notice of me
Her peak's gaze fixed on some part of herself
Then thoughts like a throng of tarpon
Mass a megrim around me
Every eager eye flies nigh
"Why, why, why..."
She questions me
It was my heart that answered
And in a heartbeat she is gone
Leaving her mist all about me
Fragrant angelica for the footing
A spice seasoning my animal spirit
Yearning for many miles before I realize
It is only clover through which I strolled
And not the perfume of a comet's tail.

No, I could not have been a poet yesterday
Because my grandfather was not at Dachau
And the other was not descended from an emancipated man
No, I am not a poet today
Because "she" does not apply to me
I do not struggle with all of the male paradigms
Nor was my gender role
Chosen for me by doctors in consultation with my parents
Maybe I can be a poet tomorrow
It might be possible...
If I claim to be one of the last surviving cowboys
Alienated by urban prairies, sleeping under fluorescent skies
Cussing up a storm about the chaffing qualities of chaps and toil
Versing how I was never meant to survive as a wrangler
Being ivory among ecru
I might even reminisce about the good 'ol days
When my grandmother would take me shopping
(if I sat still and behaved while she was getting her latest tattoo and waxing)
So I wouldn't have to wear last year's boots
While bringing in a herd of wild vegans.

Merrily

I woke under a willow tree
And lived and cried and wrote and died
Awoke the willow from its rest
To see me sleeping in its breast
But nodded off again to nap
And thought me no more than a dream

What majesty can one imagine
To have on arm
A queen who is not a queen
Deprived of her own rule
Unable to gather her allure
A savage goddess domesticated
What might can one esteem
To have in tow
A king who is not a king
Declawed, defanged, muted
Diagnosed with self-inflicted tragedy
A nobility deemed criminal
Take my arm savage queen
And I will bare my fangs
Rend from the wound
A vision of your irresistible nature
I will roar from my core
And the deep chambers of the earth
Shall echo to the continents
The union of a queen
And her jungle king.

They mock me, the witches
They were to be my salvation,
But I am a varmint to them
Only meant to watch
As they prepare to go out
Speaking the language of social evils
It blots, it contrasts, it's a conspiracy
Like cold criminality gripped as
Iron at their breasts.
What good is rage
Or silted love
When nature
Is not natural to nature?
I am flawed and astounded
At the daisy's humble hailing
Panged it is an honest blackened howl.
It changes me
And my heart wails to the howl of the daisy
Like a soul dying in moonlight.

The world needs me

Or so I am told

I need only to connect

With my community

I hear my community

Scurrying around in the attic

The squirrels, mice, bats

Battering around in the upper reaches

Where I dare not open the door

And explore

The world

Calling its needs to me

In its native tongue

A tongue not taught

Tempting an embrace

Trembling,

I dare not.

Her wing grazed my shoulder
Be-knighting me champion to a queen
And pearled the fading dusk
With unconscious syllables
Wrapped in gilded smiles.

I caught a fish in today's brisk mist
I just reached in that scalely blue and hooked it.
It sang a baritone song of the void to me in a Gershwin style
Breathing into my gills and nautilus nostrils tangy weed and coral florals
I felt the salt of a star filled sea sanding my toes
Before drifting into dreams of
Sea ponies and whiskey maids.

Darkness crawled along the ground
As deep as fear, a stalking doom,
When lit the flame desire found
To christen you, a shadow's bloom.

You are beauty

     For many skies, men have enskied women
     And seen them as I see you now.
You are beauty.
     For light years into the future,
     Men will gaze at women
     And see them as I see you now.
You are beauty.
     Poets, ancient and yet to be,
     Scribe their theorems to explain you
     From the observational support they gather.
You are beauty.
     All observations are reflected and rounded
     In the curves of your gravity.
     In their attempts to explain your light from the surrounding darkness
     They are blinded by shadow.
You are beauty.
     All beauty,
     Ancient, future, present
     Shadows are cast only for mortal eyes,
     Growing longer as their light fades.
You are beauty.
     You did not form, you do not fade
     What it was, what it will be, what is
     Shadow is absent when all is seen.
     I have seen you.
You are beauty.

Her chord has no root.
Free, alluring, different
Each and every day.

Her words are like wine
Lingering on the palette,
Intoxicating.

On the longest day
Time still flies as I listen
To your Summer spring.

She is just enough foreign
To fling a flash of lost focus
Agony of misinterpretations
In the way she Ms.uses cutlery
To the silent syllables she stresses.
To clasp her is to dare ambiguity
A conceptual blending, a ratio of
Just enough Q to encircle the weirdo
Infuse him with a Dionysian waft
Trancing his mind, trashing his work
Confiscating his self to raptures
From which it returns
Never quite the same
Just enough foreign
To re-deem the man.

My heart thirsts
But I will not drink until you drink
My bones desire a soul
To be nailed to
And to stroll as a virtuous voyager
My face surrenders an embrace
As you help me
Lace a tongue knot
A weave of juicy thread
Thank you
Now I can only
Salivate tears
Drip shock from my chin
And purr with
The moon and the ogres
The unsaid
Ringing in my ears.

Prometheus

He walked in drunk
It was a sober man's drunk
A being spirited beyond his spirits
He sat
I regarded
His story began with a bad joke
Then he told me about the goddess he married
Twenty-two (seems like) centuries ago
About the house he built
Framed with his own ribs
Plumbed with the veins of his heart
Heated with their ardor
Adorned with angel's art
Two days ago
She met him at the door
Fire in her eyes
But only embers in her heart
I watched him bide
Then imbibe more tear than beer
As he described the photo album
"Her most precious thing"
His daughter had present-ed to him
So he would not forget
Her freckled nose and her brother's blue eyes
She sensing he would not see them for a while
He imbibed this thought
I listened as the tears were fused
He said he would make them proud
They would know the truth behind the myths
About their father
But for the moment he was stuck
In this rock of a town
Until he could find a chain for his bike
He asked directions to the nearest pool hall
So the bottled eagle could finish destroying his liver
He lit a cigarette
And walked out
Leaving me his book of matches.

Entropy

The anchor on the market recap show
Has your flat-toned laugh
I hear it Monday through Friday, 5-6PM.

The waitress at the Polish restaurant
Has your clenched smile
Also, self-conscious of the size of her teeth.

The receptionist at the vet's office
Has your off-kilter sitting posture
So the same straight, long brown hair can drape over her left shoulder.

The flower lady on the corner
Has your no-nonsense wit
Never short on tips for how I can improve my appearance.

The old woman down the block
Has your power of perception
Reminding me that I am slightly more reliable
     Than the garbage men, but far less deserving
     Of attention than a stray cat.

This is how I know you live on
In a steady state uniformly populated with living bits of you.
Unlike my chaos...
With its clumpy, clingy bits of memory
T0, P0, before some entropic force and Cupid's twanged arrow of time
Dispersed our heat.

From an idle bird to a lonely tree in winter


What has gone and left you?  Love?
What is love to you?
Is it the lips you've kissed, the presently forgotten arms?
Was it the lovely lies, knocked and borrowed?

Is beauty your love?  Did you make the most of your little day?
Had you the knowledge of what to do with your brittle, summer plough-land?
Did biology speak, entreat or strike?
To which tumbled shed did the mouse vanish with your vows?  You knew not they were gone?

Indeed, that you were longer-lived, what sang might see a leave in your little see
Might sing why beauty is the must, sleeping in the will
The slow gnawing of a useless wagon, all alike
Seeking the life protested none, but itself set foot upon

Love is not a lament to be sung in your little house on your little street
It is the lamp left lit while you sought it in the twilight
Love is a sullen voice that must be brought out of the underworld
To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow.

I rain for the sky
Like a sea going to die
Windy laughing kisses
Wave fluttering goodbyes

I rejoice beautiful bird stories
From the firm hills
Flesh time pulsing still
As deep magic spills

Soon a hidden lost loneliness sprays
Jealous tumults of heat and mist
A crackling cosmic clearing as blue bows to grave
It is the earth and not the sky that weeps for clay.

You Are Not Mistaken

You are not mistaken,
You wanted deception and now you are deceived,
Betrayed by fairy tales
Or could it be, you betrayed them?
You built your castle in the dark, in the shade
Where the sun could not dry the roof after the rain,
Crumpling, rotting and collapsing
On your insufferable dreams.
You are not mistaken,
Sanctity has fled, despite your demure sighs.
The livestock could not resist the violets in your garden
Planted so near your pride and joy,
Their droppings, sanctity for the flies
That now devote themselves to your emotions
And buzz your lullabies.
You are not mistaken,
My devotion was left to rust,
In the shed where all my talents were solemnly strewn
So that they would never awaken
Your Sleeping Beauty.

Red Fell From Blue

A firmament saturated.
Monochromatic purity unable to
Permeate a palette more
Of heavenly hue,
Sacrificed
Blood love ripe as cherry sin
Thickened with a revolutionary rue.
Courage
Red fell from blue.

My muse is a cat
Haunching just out of reach, a
Sudden spring claws me.

The Ladybug

A true lady took my arm
And listened to my fawning
Sweet nothings fed to her
As a foreign seduction.
She listened
Without insult to my swooning
The wings of her independence
Put away beneath her charm
And we each forgot our day
Just for a little moment
Before she flew away
As if something were on fire.

Testosterone guards the water lily,
Ready to confront even the poet
Whose own weapons were waved
To win the blossom.
The Neanderthal can keep the lily
And its roots into the abyss.
The gliding green algae is for me.
A suspended spray shining its own style
Neither bourgeoisie nor proletariat,
Uncountable, blanketing and iridescent.
A motherly hue, enshrouding that from which the lily grew,
But who is that poking his head out of the silt and slim?
A scaly, hermited Hector, haughtily challenging any Wordsworthian Achilles
With designs of panky prose of his pale pitchy hell.
I will have my remembrance,
So I line him to my chariot
And drag him around the reedy
Walls of Troy
Until the water lily weeps for his release.

Who's Femur Is That?

Who's femur is that
     Protruding from the cemetery sand
The only marker left
     The hoar of some unknown man
I ponder...
     Was it ever in his plan
To be expired in such a way
     Disjointed from rib and hand

Could all his mourners sit in the kirk
     Were many forced to stand
Did the preacher praise his era
     Or skip to the psalm again
Had the procession need of the caisson
     Was there a military band
As for one shipped home with honors
     From some foreign land

What fate befell his widow
     How long their generational span
And did his mates toast his passing
     With a round of black and tan
The moniker on the nearby stones
     Might indicate his clan
Wait, round comes a hound who scoops it up
     He's playing fetch with Pan

The Fever

It was the result of muddle,
A fiend's muddle,
The rage and despair of Nietzsche
Incipient in a Laodicean luau.
Me metamorphosed measuredly
Into a brute lying in tribulation,
Ears pricked to bravado boasts, brutal.
I shudder...
Woe beckons.
I shudder...
The Upper Hand wantonly whirlwinds words.
My hand is on my mouth.
I shudder with sorrow...
Then, the word is seen.
The Word is seen!
Nodes of nouns,
Atoms of adjectives,
An all-night nightmare
Wrestling with a whirlwind's
Unanswerable voice visible, seen, seen!
Zero-hour, the boiling point.
Nouns bead across my harangued forehead.
Adjectives calmly, warmly, pour from my pores
Acquiescing the terrifying rhetorical trial in my mind,
They coolly travel an alternate route to my tongue
And kilned clay speaks,
Not of redemption,
But of reprieve.

Silvery ghosts float
Suspended in stygian,
A fish tank at night.

Dulcinea

She moved in and gave me green
Together we gave it blue
It grew.
No roses bloomed, though fed our red
Like an omen it turned brown
She left town.
Still it sits upon the white
An errant's hope, I give it sapphire
My air and fire.

Like a butterfly
She changes with age, each stage
Is more beautiful.

Singularity

While strolling through spacetime on a tangent
A funny thing happened...a singularity snared me.
She had smooth causal curves
Curves within curves
Curves beyond curves
Infinite curvature.
Her vertical null cones
Expressed the proportional tensor force my body felt.
My electrons crowded on top of each other
Peering for a ponderable surface.
Hovering just above her horizon, before the event,
Sustained by degeneracy pressure and highly red shifted,
I slipped inside...time stopped.
My energy exhausted, I collapsed inward
A weak energy condition she used to
Trap me to her surface.
She pressed against me
Pressure within pressure
Pressure beyond pressure
Infinite pressure.
The I of i was ended.
The eye of i was bared.
Origination supplanted origin
With fresh radiated joys unable to escape,
Now residing in a nirvana
Shared only between myself and my singularity.
Observers note only that I paused my stroll
To regard a cosmic flower,
Indefinitely.

I just want to hear
A voice loving and sincere.
I am deaf, I fear.

Strength

Little girl I am not here to
Play your frivolous games or
Indulge your fanciful flings.
I do not build facades
Like your boyish fellows
In a factitious feint
To contain your wild wonder,
Your wind, your currents, your waves.
Their faux walls,
Mere piles of brick and stone,
You destroy piece-by-piece,
In chunks or all at once
At your leisure
To be lost,
Dragged into your
Murky, briney depths.

I am an island.
A barrier of sand in the midst of your
Restless expanse.
The pieces of me you carry away today
Gleam smooth and warm on my shore
Returned on tomorrow's morn,
Neither tattered, tattooed, torn nor worn.
Your crashing surf,
Slides off me as receding waves,
Each cycle leaving me
Minutely elevated, enriched.
Your storms, your hurricanes, your typhoons,
Brandish, fling your
Flotsam and jetsam,
Giving forth the wreckage
You thought sunken.
They cannot disquiet my infrangible foundation,
Merely sticking in me
Your marks, your tokens, your grails,
Drying and musking in the sun
Until their dark putrid damp
Becomes a bleached white bouquet
To be carried off by the birds,
Used as asylum for virgin life or
Patiently slip beneath
My level, even calm.
Through time and your
Trivially testing tectonic twitches,
You will become an inland sea
Surrounded,
Harbored by me.

Pygmalion Barbie

Over lunch Barbie is telling me all her plans,
How she is trading Boise Ken for Honolulu Ken,
Still lives at home Ken for metrosexual Ken,
Fed Ex Ken for minor league baseball player Ken.
She tells me how they are going to live at the beach,
Surf every day, party,
Thursday through Saturday nights for the next three years
And then they are going to make babies.
A gypsy fortune teller told her this would happen.
I listen to her with my faux bionic ear.
I watch her like a pirate with my un-patched eye,
With patched hair
And other sundry body damage.
There's not a sweater around my neck,
Only my nappy prehistoric pelt.
With my kung-fu grip
I could take hold of the gypsy's crystal ball
And crush it into a diamond for her,
Yet in its multi-faceted reflections
She would still only see beach and babies,
Because she is Barbie
And I am not Ken.
I'm just plain ol' Joe
With a kung-fu grip.

Resistance is Futile

I cannot resist dark hair
          The kind that tastes
          Licorice.
I cannot resist green eyes
          The kind that smell
          Rye (I surely will die) Whiskey.
I cannot resist long fingers
          The kind that sigh
          Tiramisu.
I cannot resist olive skin
          The kind that hallucinates
          Dips (In the moonlight).
I cannot resist golden ventricles
          The kind that nuzzle
          Fealty.
She has none of these
          Yet I cannot resist her
          Futile.

The tail of the day
Wrapped around me, split tongue
Flickering for dawn.

Concordia

I wish I had an Italian woman to cheat on.
Knowing me, I wouldn't actually cheat on her,
But I would wish I could convince her
It was so.
I would do it just so she would
Rage and curse me in Italian,
So she would throw family heirlooms at me
And sink her bright red fingernails into my neck.
It would be worth it.
Oh, it would be clarion.
To meet Invidia,
Let her see me hear the venom dripping from her tongue,
Let her hear me see she is not as blithe as the breeze
Nor as casual and carefree as the currents,
Finally, I would have my proof of her passion,
Her self-devouring bitterness,
That she would so easily and quickly mangle
All she claims to cherish
And against which she measures me.
She would not be able to spurn my proof,
My rused rut nailed,
Not with the ruts in my nape
Dripping her Chanel rouge.

Glow

You have a sun in your smile,
It makes you glow,
Like a star burning a thousand degrees of joy,
Outing the flowers to shake off their dew.
I think I'll bask in it a while,
As it draws me near from thoughts afar
And warm myself to a healthy bronze.
It brings out the everything in you,
A humble, ivory headdress.
If only some device I could employ,
To capture your smile in my heart like a jar
Full of fireflies, a living glow ensconced,
To be a lamp post, my beacon of home in the wilderness.

I was given a name
A name I was to honor,
To have for all time,
But that name rejected me.
So I chose a name,
A name I couldn't live without,
To hold for all time,
But I was driven to cut off my hand
And could not hold on.
I was given a gift, a child,
But it was taken before
I could give it a name
And I live without the name
It would have given me.
Even this poem has no name,
Like the grinning goose fish
That love does not seem to understand.
Ancient, grey and grinning,
We are a couple of rigid optimists,
Admiring the tomb of the unknowns.

Beaming

I stepped off the curb, lifted my chin and there she was...
A little girl with dark curly locks drawn up in a beehive almost as altitudinous as she,
A princess crowned with a pink bow,
Her carriage of conveyance, the cart her mother was trudging up the inclined parking lot to their car.
Big brown eyes pensively peered at me, first on one side of her mother and then the other.
She inclined towards me, body and mind, wayward to the route of her mother's plod.
I held her ruminating regard without expression as long as I dared,
Then slightly raised the corners of my chops and softened my countenance.
At once she smiled, a sweeping showing simper.
As the faun, Mr. Tumnus, I nodded at my Lucy.
Reaching their destination, her mother asked her, "What are you looking at?"  and turned...
But I was already past, appearing as the lamp post,
An expected part of the landscape in one world,
Peculiar and out of place in the other...
Beaming.

Instinctual

Does the hyena ever quip
He never laughs with her anymore?
Is the viper vexed
He didn't slide over and hiss?
Does the owl wonder why
He no longer seems to pay attention to who...who?
You must forgive me if
I laugh, hiss or who around you
Or simply silently sway like
An anemone instinctually communicating
With the currents
In your cosmic tidal pool.
I am merely rebooting,
After being humbled to my BIOS.

Married to a Xylophage

Does it still grow?
How wood you know, the dodo tempo and rhythm of mortis?
Still it stands a wooden ghoul.
How many times euthanized and resuscitated?
Yet still it stands,
Committed to that spot long ago.
In youth, jading every spring,
Now arthritic limbs blossom to leisurely
Winter's petrification blooms perpetually,
God scarcely smiling underneath it anymore.
She has driven off or vanquished all it could cling to for support,
Tree, mammal, rock.
Even chummy kudzu dares not advocate an acquaintance.
What senescent memory remains, retained in those reapered rings
Not yet eaten by dementia?
What suspended consciousness silently screams for autonomy
Inside that broken, dripping frame
Passed over by the aphid angels?
Is it an introspective contortion or the tenacious termite's tiny, tickling torture
Twisting the bark into its gnarled grim grin?

Sunday Dinner

My mother showed me a picture once
Of what it was like on those holy days
When mere men
Dressed in dark ties and starched white shirt-sleeves
Sat together in the banquet hall
And were served the bounty of the earth
Made divine by glowing
Immortals wearing flowers in their hair.

To the poem, in vogue...

So terrifyingly conversational are you
Yet so flat and one sided
Not like any conversation I'd enjoy
Speak your common tongue in the language of a tree
Then it might be living to me
Speak it in the dialect of a willow
Or the slang of snow
Call out a coyote canticle
Dapple a chorus dribbled in Daspletosaurus
Speak to me in nouns
Of the highest naturalnanimous numerator
For I care not
For the perversity
Of the lowest primatetitive denominator

See me sprawled, still,
Fluxing through fates of felt.  Who
Will hear my silence?