w h e n a c o a t h a n g e r w o u l d s u f f i c e
A N D Y M O R G A N
My garment bag was empty at noon:
relinquished pastels, smudged corduroy
and platelets of tinsel covering
a bruised and arthritic trap-door.
I fumbled for the camera-nothing:
belt loops, a padlock and a key chain:
figments of a Neanderthal dawn
squeezing my wrists and cuculating
the view of headlights upon the pyramids.
Vultures mate for life, I'm sure,
but when in the desert hangnails
seem trivial to the naked.
It's difficult witnessing Cleopatra:
she and her damsels glittering
while your belongings are scattered about
and your appendages begin panting
in a key Kandinsky made cliché.
I rung up a tombstone:
"Im surrounded (stop)
Theres Egyptian whores prancing about (stop)
Send Caesar or his like (stop)"
I shallowed myself as the serf extinguished.
Crumbs of cleaved moonlight
silhouetted the tightroped prances of
widows suckling sullen breaths.
Eddies of luster backstabbed intent:
clothing was made immaculate,
and pastries passed about
while, even as I pirouetted,
the closest closet ninnied and sunk,
cracking its door, slanting the easel,
and nibbling nails like an artist.