My Love is Like a Fountain, Sort of
I Blood Rocket
This acceleration lacks focus
and many atmopheres ago I would have said,
"This acceleration lacks focus." This whole endeavor
smacks of misbegotten com-links
and not many silences ago
I would have agreed.
Instead, the thrust of afterburners.
Instead, the many launches of poorly specified
fuels and just about all the re-entries
that I can stand. (Well, I guess I could do
a few more re-entries.)
And another thing!
This fountain business disturbs me.
I offer exactly zero apologies.
I know I looked
II Plea Bargain
I know it's risky, but you've got to try.
Hate weighs so much more than gravity can outlaw.
I know the temper in the steel has been lost,
but each day is a smelter and the sun melts.
Indeed, inertia of starvation can be dangerous
but hunger attains the proper theoretical speed.
Yes, Bernoulli's effect needs wings.
They're merely cramped from hiding.
The required velocity is high, yet rainbows orbit
all the time it takes a feather to bring rain.
Covenants among atoms and angels may pre-empt our strike.
However, I think kisses build like nimbus.
Molecules attain the proper speed
when I mistake pages burning for the crying of reeds.
When molecules attain the proper speed I mistake pages
burning for hailstones plucking the harp of a pond.
I know ice falls like fire. But read the law perfectly,br>
etched in the skin of each pelleting grain.
III Theory Of Flight
Kissable imperfections of the body,
perfected by touch, shed light like feathers
or the too much sought after Fountain of Truth.
She has a problem, you know. She can't
stop saying she's sorry. It spouts
out of her like Tabasco sauce,
more gluey than a can of cream of mushroom soup,
spicy glue. I, for one, don't care. I don't love her
for the succulence of her spouting. I love her
the time she does not say, "I'm
sorry," though she's convinced
I'll hanker off after the next hussy
to mince along in a can-tight Campbell's
soup label, sheer French onion perhaps.
She doesn't notice the freshly shed light
lying around feathery and gossamer.
Of course the glue and the feathers
might make a bad combination. But, heck,
maybe she could fly.
IV Let Food Be The Measure
The time I won't say "I'm sorry,"
when soup cools in a full belly,
reads like a book of smoldering leaves
only the hungry can cipher.
When soup cools in a full belly
the gut warms to its task like blood.
Only the hungry can cipher
this fuel and know why is always.
The gut warms to its task like blood
on fire with want until I want
this fuel and know why is always
broken light myselves grieve now.
On fire with want until I want
love, imperfect wings sieze the sky.
Broken light myselves grieve now
arcs its spectrum a fountain.
Love, imperfect wings sieze the sky.
My feathers are pages that burn
arcs, my spectrum a fountain
perfectly broken and fallen.
My feathers, my pages that burn,
read like a book of smoldering leaves
perfectly broken and fallen
the time I won't say "I'm sorry."
my love porkles down to the edge of town
billows among winos disheveled by their halos
snurdles hospital to hospital to and fro
as a stiff bristled boar slung low
for murder each victim screaming
like a stuck child my love lies dreaming
to misconstrue a can of soup blind the eyes of the blind
i dont mind i dont mind i dont mind i do not mind
to kiss the imperfect to canoodle the ridiculous
slobbers divine and snorkles lascivious
grunt-snorts among humped light sheds feathers
oinks my wings swings wide my weathers
VI Applied Physics
For tears I will tell you the secret of flight.
For sorrow I will tell where to hide the swift,
kissable imperfections of the body.
Chilies and pepper-seeds scorch across the night-
sky like covenants, spouting wild through the rift
I tell, sparkled for the fountaining body.
Miracles fall, mundane and Tabasco-bright,
shed like feathers and old grievance set adrift.
I weighed out and I kissed my perfect, bloody
bottles of sweat, blinded to my lie. The white
of an eye stings for this price. I sold a gift
I would not tell you for hate, how my body
needs. The secret most often wrong is how tight
I shut your eyes. But when you bend wings to lift,
I kiss the imperfect and fountain boldly.
For chili-fire I will tell you the bawdy
hunger and the being here that feathers drift.
For years I will tell you the burden of light
in the kissably imperfected body.