Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Francisco Bizarro

for there was barely a thistle
along the low parapet now
and the thin green parasols which lived there

would not x-ray the milk
their pale albuminous latex knights
and the acorn dispatch

or saint vitus' mythic meeting
with the squirrels
their hands so racoon like

floating over these ceramic faces
where purslain lie leeling
percival the cat

in town for a month now it its mouth
the country cousin
or hay of math

spread out all around the perimeter
just outside the parapet
which footed the walls of the barn

the bard of yarn
which hung in effigy before the toads
fried eggs in oil paintings

to break the yolk with a spiny spindled skull
of pliant green dexterity
as if all symbolism

were the flexible plastic suppurating tessellation 
of Aristophane's frogs
the high image of their fecund satire

El Cuarto del Rescate
sniff the beast and toss it down

long and winding glass acorns
and saint vitus'
illicit squirrel child

stored away
in spring 
is nuts