February 2006

Wading up the Rubicon

 

From Monica’s full Ginsburg to apple fall at Woolsthorpe Farm

From Adam’s apple bite to Newton’s Armageddon in 2060, the

Civil war of the senses goes on, relentless as house cleaning,

Still grabbing a sausage at the Quickie Hoppe Shoppe, tearing

Through time and turmeric to pay the ocarina soloist for all of his

Human tuned legacy on who screwed who and killed the other.

 

When all goes white and fades, and people talking indistinctly

Turn your looks into a prayerful gaze that doesn’t faze them,

Doesn’t alert them to your fainting til you hit the floor and even

Then the amazement only grabs a momentary silence, God,

Statues everywhere from backyard bench to heaven’s reach 

Is fumbling for YOUR highly magnified minutiae, wants to know

 

What you learned about her, your intense drivel, remarkable

Dribble of desires and satisfying sighs as if to ask: IS EVERY-

THING THE MATTER? And, if you come up with say a complete

sentence in the narrow cone of white lighted tunnel-headed,

Near death explanation or manage an audible cavernous gurgle  

Of fish tank affection for her, a kissing whale moment, and don’t

 

Clear the room like a bomb scare, you will realize that God does

Not care whether you worship the seventeen tittied lady or the

Act of touching ponies as long as you are able to confess that

Up til now, banality has been your savior and that the greatest

Revival is yet to come. Though the spirit of man lurks in the works,

The heedless angel wants you to kiss larger mammals than you,

 

Like a long-tailed something or rather, once believed to be extinct .

She wants you to de-ice your soul back to when we were all head, 

ass and fins. She cares for you like proponents of the machts nichts

school of child rearing. She will not attack you with her lions or

flush the pages of your beliefs down the toilet before your very eyes.

Her wild beauty wants you in desperate threesome with the ARTS.

Photo by Eugene Brown

Copyright Jimmy Warner, 2005