(For A.)
After growing out with her hair for eight years they shave it half off just to have a poke at the brain
Thinking they'd find a packrat nest of goodies that could be split, dissected and displayed, inner hydraulics of an egg yolk
But once inside they saw it was a matter of poetry
A crystal exploding it's skin of snowflakes under saltplain of skull;
Branching out from within, the mass disturbed optical nerves& skewered the fragile Pandora's jar of mathematics
Releasing dread visions of incongruencies to the native as a cavalry of auditors came clattering in mumbling normal is as normal does
Taxing& naming each representation of the whole as it passed on a conveyor belt like a river
Leaving warts off the map as they came to the headwaters of exponential isolation thundering beneath tall velvet curtains of purple: mists of anaesthetic music:
It was you times you plus the anxiety of all the loved ones, the ones waiting for the end of the beautiful day which was parted with a scalpel that carved your skull
You head covered with scaffolding of gas tubes, blacklights and disco balls, electronic tweezers
As they rummaged day's cerebral junkyard knee-deep in close-captioned styrofoam of mystery
They tripped and came face to faceless with their selves, learning meaning without having read the book. Henceforth and so on, I too
Translate everything into my own language so I may stroke the hair of shadow, if not the real thing
All the gliding half-unseen victorian Memories lined up against my Rosetta stone
Checking their licenses like eggs illuminating innards with an introspective candle
I wake from the dream of yesterday as sun spins thru window your hair, wrapping my wristwatch & teaching me to ignore the prodding of minor gods
Indoctrinating me with will to let it heal itself into gnarled richness and therein whimper
With lifelines out to each tastego, we pull thru the ambergris of experience to slap down an oil of it's image
A stylish scarf covers the shaved area which reflects a landscape of floral arrangements, each bearing an enveloped headache
That insist we're childproof bottles, even as we bleed on the surgical hill daring the stars to twinkle a question
Lawrence, KS 1988
Published in Caliban
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