An ape is likely to be an angel paraphrasing Jack
His filthy hands raking over genitals break the dry
Finger off a fallen dogwood branch What we call them
Is an affront for classification what’s necessary of it
Is solipsism lips ill suited for the plosive but how they can swing
Angels at neanderthal angles the stick dips into a
Beehive and Bob suddenly is in a world of trouble
Comprehending no automatic a four-limbed all out
Sprint down the evolutionary ladder limber resilient breath overdrawn
He clears the gorgeous overgrown meadow and plunges
Ass first into an icy pool Another lesson learned.
Diogenes the onion-eater, watched by dogs, sitting in his tub. By Jean-Léon Gérôme, 1860
The boy had never seen an honest man.
He looked among us every night he said.
He eyed each stranger like Diogenes
And took him with his lantern into bed.
He'd probe the stranger's body with that light
Search every corner of his flesh and bone
But truth was never there. He'd spend the night
Then leave him and resume his search alone.
I tried to tell him there was some mistake
That truth's a virtue only strangers lack.
But when he turned to face me with a kiss
I closed my lying heart against his lips.
The edge, a tired of the
find the hacked with vacation clouds
in the freezer
I find the universe
Its edge but what lies
at the real
prospect of the side. Living grapes in the asphalt’s softest
hacked with vacation clouds
Its edge, a
the kitchen real prospect
of feeling things,
hacked with language
Its edge, tired of the church by now, felt up
I’m tired of comparing things.