"What
Stratagem is This?" O insulting
superciliousness Of the soul, That scornful look That checks my
festivity, That hinders my
mirth, That bridles my
impertinent composure, Or worse That dominates, or
agitates My thoughts into
jelly; What stratagem is
this? A humble repentance With
self-preservation? A bit of
rapprochement? A design, an
invention? A gadget? a
mission? A machination, a
plan Of wayward
conversion From the far shore? From the enemy or
friend Let in the front
door? How to contend? How to weather this
storm? Apply quiet temper In synchronized
step With spasms of
assistance From beguiling
suggestion? Aghast! The skeptic In torment and
anguish Concedes the
affront Of my diet and fare That quells the
agnostic And vexes the
devouring Mischievous bearers
of hellatinous wares, With radiance and
splendor Of gewgaws and
frippery, The dainty and
dapper With fever and
force Now squeamish and
foppish Now polished and
close. It's what a brave
heart would stand up for When faced with a
debauched graceless fate Of wanton dominion Of shameless
oppression Of gray isolation In dreamy
seclusion. We partake in
combustible matter Consumed to
generate Uncontrolled anger From a furnace
imbedded In our deep
wrinkles within, Under layers of
skin Designed to ward
off Unwanted guests- The corkscrew and
helical, The flat and the
thin. Arguing, bothering, Giving no attention
to detail, Melting in combat By the heat of the
fusion Into hot fat and
hot oil Condemned with hot
butter Into a simmering
amalgamate Of blended
diffusion, Giving rise to
great fumes, Plumes of gasses
with vapors, Before sending an
ineffectual rescue flare Hopelessly
succumbed by a dish Of any fried food Stuck to cracked
walls In the doorways of
hell. The quality of
futility Is in its feature
not unlike that Of a group of
persons Frolicking around
the feathers Of a goose-down
pillow, Or taking liquid
measurements Of the rusting
alloys of fear Induced by the
knowing glance Of our failure To socialize regularly; Or discharging a
number Of cone-shaped guns In a narrow trench On the surface of
Mars In it’s solar time, Filled with wood
and coal And the apparatus Of chemical action. This be I may
methinks somewhat not. In beds that
fulfill our sensitive thrusts With lamps that
enhance our convulsions, On chairs that
cradle our burning sinews Or tables that
mottle our fissuring gaze- This is the meaning
of excellence Exclaimed with joy By a burrowing
African animal That resembles an
anteater, Or a hyena-like
mammal Feeding on carrion
and insects; Or even a plant
from the Philippines Whose unfeeling
leafstalks Become the denuded
source Of Manila hemp. It’s all startling,
confusing, Not being caused by
bacteria, But by a frame
holding parallel rods Used for manual
computation At the bow of a
flat-bottomed ship With sails Found in the South
China Sea Trading in pirated
cargo On a voyage with
members Of the genus of
gastropod mollusks That cling to rocks And have shells Which are flat And lined with
mother of pearl. To put an end to
this debate Of unstable passion Residing in the
temporal dwelling place Of an infected sore Oozing with pus. To sever, to
separate That desire to
scratch The irregular
surface Or the lines on the
cartographs Of unstructured,
immovable worlds Of color Governing those
tendrils Of the human
thorax. Such an edifice of
unruly fiction On an acetate card With a brush of
brash confidence, Amusing, and
comical, A visage of forgery Illegally taken From an instrument
of pleasure Flexibly pliant,
and twisted by fate, Yet unexpectedly
happy Like smooth
imperfections In the waterfall of
ruin. A frail, absurd
descent Into a mendacious
bazaar Of illusory tents
and tables of deceit; While the lower
ranks Of our well-defined
layers of consciousness Lapse, And find it
difficult to fathom, And steer clear, Then collapse
without arguing Onto poisonous
snakes In a deep crack In the earth. So I endure the
steady pain Of inflammable gas Flowering on the
branches Of a thorny bush At the base of an
oak tree, In the middle of
June, With my nostrils
upturned And my ears on the
roam, Or my chin in my
hand My head on the
moon, Now young and
agile, Now aged and old. Clearly
unreasonable, At best
unseasonable, I wrangle for a
furious grief-lashed instant Then groan and
lament In the dim, dark
fog Of the unvarying
loam Of wasted discord
in jostling crowds Of subterranean and
diminished ideals Caught under my
nails And stuck to my
feet In the twilight of
dawn And the morning of
eve. Are you a person
with a strong habit Of voluntary sexual
intercourse? Or just an
alter-ego Adjusting to the
new conditions Of being a female
dancer? Whattotherefore
thoufor Art thee? Whencehapchance The barble daups? Addled splendor
such as this With an
adhesive-like surface On the sediment Of nature's
fertility, Soft, tender, Cruel, heinous, A malignant morass Of untamed
wilderness Behind my eternally
furrowed brow Peering out and
vainly striving to appear Well timed, though
savage, Auspicious, yet barbarous, Celestial, but
bloodied, A brotherhood of
dregs, all. So floating freely Without a purpose, An uncontrollable
happening, An act of God. Thus grieving with
pain From these trying
wounds Unbandaged, and
open To adversity
unabated Endured with a flight Of panic and
terror, Issuing an archaic,
bygone Plea to compassion In the guise of a
spirited Capricious array Of domesticated Cute little Rabid prairie dogs Filled with cunning And a strange
desire to please. The labored,
perpetual Creation of apprehension Assailed by the
awakened yet awkward Excitement Defined by the look
of Honest subterfuge In suspicious
authority and control Over our actions
and being Awaits us here. So a machine that
flies Away from the Earth Bids me farewell And serves me ice
cream With a beverage
similar to beer; I had an abnormal
reaction And was afflicted
with a great candor Made more terrible By the large
amphibious reptile Lying in wait on
the shore, Having a broad head And hungry teeth, Which was nervously
excited By the
nitrogen-containing Organic bases
obtained From our moonlit
immorality. "Alleluia",
belched the saurian, Alive with alien
AIDS While moving
forward to dine; Who added albino
allusions To archways of
rainbowed warmth In artichoke hearts As he devoured us. Such is my strain. So the onlooker Raises his
Machiavellian glass In a satiric toast To the opacity and
doom Of unacceptable
minds. wbiro And their
stratagems are lost In the vacuum of
time. |
|