To write the epic of the world
in a few words or less
(in one word or less)
is the method
of Cameo Kidney,
an unfanned philosopher,
a basic star streaker,
a stunning safety soldier,
hiding in the cloak closet,
chaffed but unashamed
that English is the only
language which capitalizes
I while several capitalize
the pronoun—you.
To be born in my manger,
made affluent in three gifts
by strangers harried from afar,
is the feeling faked everywhere
in the shadow of my birthdate—
and you break out the best dishes
saying, “Your book, if as a canvas
is an ugly painting hanging in all the wrong places.”
Generations of chalk
revile the science of gestures
nicknamed virgins coax to their brow,
laughing and lampooning
Einstein’s stepchildren
God was forced to allow.
To kiss them where muses lick,
begetting secrets we shower in song
(Tormenting earth for five months…)
eagerly selling dark matter to the sun,
dead idol Beelzebub’s a cracking
jokes at the keeper of the knots
“home of the label”
spinning report card eyes
to recall laughter understood
in the vernacular to be fatal.
To accept each hand in marriage
as a lion among the woodpiles
lost on timeshared tee-shirts
admiring the sundown of business
& extreme video conjugations
counting numbers without commas
calling names without numbers
dealing cards without names
shaving beards without cards
booking definitions
Fermi solutions with redlights
poke through.
[1986, Washington, DC ]
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