Thursday, March 8, 2012

Brawling The Cyclopian Pastoral

when I am sad
remove the hands
lay them near the window

in rainy lands
or dry gulch common
bones of bison pushed up aground
as fabulous shipwrecks

its heart
as clear as a jellyfish
the sentient inner world of the unknown
still-dreaming myth of order
its heart may arrive
and enclose the traveler's head
a helmet, a gelment

piston arms
for the cabinet of sleep

or in other worlds
I point out to the owner
one of his pastries on the floor
He says he is not Hungarian
but Danish

He gives a candid racism
to my pocket full of coins

the storm outside now

torn purple shreds
fuse like cylinders
among the tattered fenxes