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Am I the only one to think it’s crazy
To dream of Mars in a deep marble lapis?
To think stars are as seeds
Slumbering in secret merriment
That the fallen of them are not a fault
But a fruit of their own folly?
To let them be
If for nothing else than to enrich
This ink-deep dark-sea splash party
As one who might wish upon a story?
Am I the only one to think it’s crazy
How both myth and mythos reside in the insides of the body?
Like bellows, our lungs pumping air out and in
Passing ancient bloodstream rituals spun thick and thin
Molecular seiges—Troy told through the tale of a tumor
Epicurus, the epidermis—embers bygone limerence humors
This Herculean yet tender venture of holding another human hand in love
And Cassiopeia cells held tight as bulwarks on behalf of vanity to biology.
To think it’s crazy there could exist such a paltry concept as “dirt poor”?
Provided dirt is an expression of what’s most abundant and rich in this world
Even as the Dirtless Rich soil the garden
Trading in fertility for Victorian vanities
Blushing temporarily from withering heights.
And to think the fork was made in the graven image of Bart Simpson?
Evidently a tool suited for the eating of one’s shorts.
Am I the only one to think it’s crazy
That the finger that wags the human
That scolds the tail that wags the dog is justified
By the fry that batters the fingertip in grease and sodium chloride?
To see God in a lamp moth
To see oneself in the moth
But not in God?
To think superstition is safety?
To believe it’s possible
To blink in harmony with all that you miss?
That we are solely a hole in the hive?
And here I am thinking it’s crazy
That this hole could be continuous
With the whole of our lives. |
