Friday, February 23, 2007

Jesus Chrysler, part I

© 2007, Troy K Spears

the third explanation,
the law of the excluded middle,
or if you prefer,
neither and both –
the included midsection,
the tortured torso of venus,
the lost cannibal children
of tortilla flat.

i descended from the greek theater,
staggering behind the berkeley hills
after a night of coma,
sleeping with raccoon, skunk, deer, and kitfox...
waking in vomit and vodka
and little yellow flowers no bigger
than the pupil of the eye of my amphetamine.

i awoke with a counterargument
to my sad russian and german authors,
the brainchild of twirly girls and squirrelly worlds,
a new song that seized in my throat,
which i soon forgot
because all i could see was
the bloody sun crawling
after the beaten day.

what was that song that i almost heard?
dipping, diving, dreaming,
daffy magic of the foregone conclusions.
falling trippingly off the tongue,
all my erudition,
criticized at birth.

comes now my beloved,
beloved shulamite,
the mad light behind her eyes,
her passel of misbehaving children,
filing out of the laundromat,
eyes downcast,
past the watchtower witnesses
who are now awake.

i turned to examine the death
of my youthful friend,
untutored adonis whose liver failed
from too much leaving the path,
too much motherlode
riding along with the white horse,
dripping into the neediness of lonely wives,
the boredom of troubled schoolgirls.

no, you did not dip the needle
in the bleach that would have saved you
before you dragged it along your arms,
deep and deeper into your veins.

no, i did not think before i lunged
into broken philosophers
who drew nearer to me than my breath,
dragging me into the waves.
and i could not summon the faith
nor madness
that would have forgiven you.

now your body is lowered
into the sluttish earth,
and my eyes are lifted
as the horizon falls beneath the sun.
the day turns into the devil's anvil,
my heart is crushed
and laid out upon the stone,
my tears baked into the evening's bread
and i weep for humanity's feeblemindedness
and our contempt.

come no nearer, my beloved,
and speak no more...
let me gaze at you
and your brats
in silence.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

really like this--dylan thomas singing exuberantly in a sybilant bottle resonant of bukowski but diogenes akritas, thru & true. Great!

11:16 PM  

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