Panegyric

Clytemnestra leads
the fever trees

through which
the starlight in our fibers

streams. This
I know through the stem

of my vocabulary,
inclined toward eros

and global warming
in which every sex

luxuriates toward
death's perfect

innovation. People
just want to live.

Our desire is a simple
candleflame

set before the sun,
consumed by it

from where we sit
yet not invisible to

us, who feel it
rise to the seeing

level of our eyes.
Psychosis resolves itself

every hundred feet
per second, exploding

basilisks with wings
of certain marble.

Because I love them
and you, my heart

remains a sentence:
Sometimes a practical

piece of string, at others,
a snake to bite you

back with your own pain.
Sometimes, even

a lightning bolt
that masturbates its own

skeleton: The moon
runs high and orange,

and normal cities
quiver, saturated with

groundwater
and the flow through

living sewers of
tears, saliva, semen,

menstruel blood
and the remains of fourteen

clouds. The day
rises: trees begin to

brighten. Hands unfold:
Hearts and minds

depict. Meanwhile,
man no. 36724

wonders what
an indentifying number

is. What a fantastic
activity philosophy can be!

He can be employed
anywhere on earth, but

how likely is it, beyond
having this Self, that his

body will be received by
some other as pure gift?

Marriage, she sd., leads
to only two things:

Infidelity and murder.
Silence. I know:

I killed my own.
So did my next door

neighbor. We shared
a meal and she asked,

what if a human
were not human

and the world inside
was not a form of hope

or any future term,
but was innocent poverty

stolen against instant
assimilation of pleasure?

I thought she was
a Hapsbuirg, and asked

about the House of
Atreus. But no:

Exuberance was of beauty
then, and exuberance

remains in beauty now.
The words by which we

survive are the language
by which we flag

uncertain strangers
who sadly steal us

from ourselves and hold us
to our own desires.

Better madness,
than to loathe the stable

model that refuses to
consume its food. Open

your mouth and cry
to heaven above:

Perhaps the graves
have opened up too soon.

A boner on a pillar
speaks of eternity and time:

Excesses of motion,
desire, formulation,

revenge and appetite
are signs of life.

They and it burn in us.
Variety is immortal.


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