Nantucket, Connecticut, Somerville,
Crockett, plus rockets that breathe nitrogen
one last time on the soup shelf
with half an inclination
that resembles a parking meter’s
raspy tongue of Satan.
Nantucket bound, lobster tires
flapping 95, weeping
at rest stops littered
with souvenirs: rack of sunglasses
two stories tall & 100 minus
who knows what percent
of cotton tee-shirt
welcomes another toll.
Mike’s Adam to God fingertips
is pop art, elegant pop art.
Hals preceded Rimbaud--
as prostitutes rarely stand.
Hals punched oils like early spin washers
wobbling their galvanized hips,
domestic typhoon that plucked
eyebrows, then tinted
personalities with the subtlety
of a prong horn caught
in a trapper’s net.
Aces fall from unbuttoned sleeves then
ascend to static clouds in Barbados.
Habana spins roulettes through
a tropical disturbance of cigar smoke.
I understand resisting McDonald’s
but squelching those who oppose
those who oppose those
who oppose everyone;
get a grip, a mother fucking
& don’t let go
lest you forget which parking lot
you’re lost in
or which organic Halloween hairdo
of wilted lettuce fluoresces your
tattooed hand reaching for a tomato
mistaken for the Theory of Relativity--
never forget the power
of imaginative relativity,
or relative imagination.
I don a robe, with silken replica
of a strain of feline that went extinct
fifty millennia ago--
collar mottled in crushed hazelnut
& black bear brown, muzzle
that resembles a gold rush
on a Minnesota farm growing
corn-tassel poets who celebrate
moose cocks bobbing the frozen lake
of freedom, plus wine-colored
theater seats where wide-eyed,
flickering newsreels sponsored
by the same company that sold lard
as though lard contained religious
properties, then took those shoes
without feet crossing the coals
& gave our tickets to porters
whose instincts we trusted.
But, never trust anyone who
mistakes jasmine cologne
for an absent-minded umbrella.