Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Day,


like the butt-end of the broken off Protong
whose intricate and crumbling contour I may inspect
if I were an I, and not the illimitable 
reconfigureability of infinite unknown languages
contained in this frieze
of forked and yammering Styxilites.


Day is ominous,
and withdrawn into itself, as when
somehow in the domestic struggles
of traffic analysts one notices in the numbers
the face of Humbaba
attempting to republish itself
as an illustrated history
of Pachinko,


whose delicate cover of carved butter
depicts a child with a balloon in one hand
and his parent's hand in another
spitting a coin miraculously
into the slot of a coin operated box trap
whose bait may be the whole of life
as reduced into a poem
by a slithering alien thing
with a beard of nictitating diagrams.


Day is the child of grace
waning upon a smooth waxy copy
of a bloodcell
illuminated from within
by a white hot rod-iron birdcage
mimicking the skeleton
of a radiolarian,
and just now starting
to melt a whole
within its navel.


Day is all of a smile
and tendered by the sweetest coinage
into a test,
a babe with an elaborated iron helmet
it knows not how to hold up
above the rushing cataracts
but does


in its buzz, this babe is drunk
on whirring clover pistil breaths
which hunt among
the tar black angels
that lay flat in mirrored disks
to perform as stairs
over an ever more violent foam
whose only mistake
is hyspherical languetude.


Day is a shambles,
a lady knight asleep in the inch-worms
which conflate as a swarm
amid the bramble
which follows the lonely lane's amiable
stream as a thing foot bean
a corkscrew tongue
which passes through the pale
transparent blue glass sky pig
and causes it to ooch
towards the gingerbread guru
with tree horns
who only bakes houses
in a romanesque style
as the Day
is always
before the Gothic,
its orgigin

unconed.