In that lonely corner of a gnarled world
where a raccoon scratches the roof
and music provides an optimum occasion
to celebrate the night’s catch of dreams,
when the unraveling becomes a constant
and nobody answers since no one’s there,
once the dust turned inside out travels
without purpose beyond what dawned
and then was an incarnation gone,
ripped apart and now unrecognized
by eyes the skies want to cry with,
and from which death’s reckless hand
trails vaporous through elfin grots,
orgasms spouting like hot geysers,
maintaining the fractured antithesis
and wailing wildly in a glorious state.
She’s not always queen of the gene pool, can be a snot sometimes,
thinks the moon revolves around her vulva, and the oceans bend
to her wild whims. When I come flying past her on my roan steed
her complexion changes. No longer vermillion-faced or masked,
her empathy flows like mercury. How disrespectful it would seem
were I to lay myself prostrate in the mud, ignoring her exhortation.
She tramples troglodytes in her dreams, trounces ghosts wherever
she finds them, whether they cause anyone pain or not. I renounce
dreams altogether, and have no affinity for their questionable sense.
They exist in a climate that science won’t verify, therefore cannot
be realized in the scope of what is commonly known as experience,
unless one accepts as experience that which is neither felt nor seen.
Someone has to do the heavy lifting. Somebody must suffer, spit up
blood, for she is strictly quid pro quo, tit for tat, and will not model
a mini skirt at the department store to show off what sexy buttocks.
I think I’ve been in love with her from the day I dug a foxhole inside
my mind and sought to bury accumulated sorrows in the salty earth.
She hugged and held me tight, and coaxed me to put the spade down.
I’m living in a glass house. Although that may seem odd, impossible
perhaps, the glare of brazen sunlight bounced off the walls so bright
I retract like a turtle into its shell. Every person on Earth is an outlier.
It’s not as though autumn didn’t come, nor the sun refuse me warmth.
I’m not asking anybody to make excuses, heal wholly artificial angst.
I’m not in any danger–the world won’t record my thoughts anyway.
I’ve been unmasked since the day I flowed from my mother’s womb.
That might come as a surprise to someone who has been living with
the aim of praising rain and encouraging fields of white corn to grow
in the bleeding heart. That might be inconsequential once our world
ceases, and history loses context, memory is petrified, and humanity
is dissipated into a cosmos that contains the only real consciousness.
We play marbles on a sand dune. We clasp hands and dance merrily
around Mount Shasta in the dead of winter. We make the most of it,
whatever it is or isn’t. We don’t listen to the little folk who chatter
like chipmunks in the Ozarks. It’s imperative we block out all sights
and sounds that would distract us from what is occurring right now
beneath our noses and outside the thin film of your misconception.
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly and Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry and interviews have appeared in literary journals internationally, including Nimrod, Florida English Journal, Cream City Review, Mandala Journal, Poetry Salzburg, Poetry Quarterly, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Boston Poetry Magazine. He has published a travel book, Best Choices In Northern California, and his epic adventure Ballad of Billy the Kid is available on Amazon in both Kindle and print versions.