That which can be made Explicit to the Idiot is not worth my care.
………………………………………….is Kubla without Khan,
Tintern without Abbey, Ozy without mandias,
me without you—so to speak;
& I could truly embrace the Flower Children loving Blake
in this color print pairing—
[the hallucinogenic; the fire in The Doors; “Proud Mary’s gone wild.”]
—if only the latter hadn’t been “on loan to Liverpool,”
said the docent in clipped vowels (bored out of his wispy skull).
Yet here we are again—as if in an 18th century
clusterfuck of things to come.
I’m the top one (not by choice) of this coupling:
Newton washed in Michelangelo marble,
muscles inflated after free-weight reps,
cloak shoulder-slung like a wet towel in the locker room,
& bare-ass naked (always bare-ass naked it seems) on igneous rock,
compass & triangle in hand—that’s me—trying to science it out;
& you, the bottom, the Nebuchadnezzar of the two prints,
are more sinew of the sort
seen on grandfatherly types at clothing optional resorts;
palms & knees to the floor, crawling back as always,
grazing to engorgement;
& whenever I look at the one I attribute to you, I can’t help
but hear Sophie Tucker vamping a torch song,
& then she belts out, “Oh my man I love him so,”
& it’s like I’ve just sucked a jalapeño—all teary & snot-nosed;
yet there you are creeping back—a rutting boar—time blowing by
like calendar pages in a breeze.