Poem 8

Mercury must be up to something:
A prick as old as that.
I used to blame astrologers
For wondering,
I used to be
A metaphysics scrooge.

In this vessel of a paper cup
Sail playground chips
And we must jangle
Toward the mysterious workings
Like alley cats
The defiant incoming motion
Dangerous opportunity
On this skirt
That no symbol invoked is insignificant
But lambs
That falling trees in absentia resound
A little ambiguously
But are well thought of
Calculable stresses.
We don’t want to bow
Or strangle
But holler a bit
And bear every relation
To reality
Faith for understood reasons,
Not gullibility for servitude
Devotion only to devotion
Sedition only to sedition
Solace and company who said that.
But my drawings may not be
So intoxicating a confection as
The top ten holy books.
I’m sorry.
I’ve let you all down.

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