Poem

Untitled (potential daybed)

—"legerdemain in the Elaboratory"
Ronald Johnson (ARK 72)—

Now, what do you want to do about frankincense,
patchouli oil or vetiver, all tools of Satan, decriminalized
nonetheless and disguised as glassy liquids of desuetude?
Also, the loved one is appearing as a big Harlequin
great dane. Lovely dark guy. Doesn’t slobber either. Like
some I know. Pines, vale of heavenly rest, all. Yikes, rest?

Lay down and dream we have been intersecting all along
as if there is no help for it. Melpomene for instance is dancing
on our noses. Fractured toe of hers don’t help much though.
Porticules, curly cues, pool cues, actor signs, boots: all blew
up in a big cool Flaubertian lack of distance. You know
blah blah blah, c’est moi. Dillinger, Rimbaud? Especially if.

What is modernity? Can I read to you from the first Iris
Murdoch novel? Potential daybed, that one. It’s all over anyway,
Peak Freens and Dentyne stuck in the hair. Frangipani, I am
tempted to think, is an oil too. Echo things nosewise. Rosewater
burns the eyes apparently. Things don’t come together so
well. Swelling sense of direness zips u up, gordo. Funny name
for a dog, twirling in the starry eye.