The Volume of Man

My body is filled with dovecotes and spoons.
I contain geraniums and warheads.
Sloshing about inside me are clouds and ditches.
There’s peculiar scenery and savage imagery.
Instead of a heart, a Roman catapult.
Instead of lungs, galloping palominos.

There’s a highway inside me that’s going nowhere.
It’s just below the surface, a sub-molecular reality,
and very earthy it is too, very meaty.
And often I walk this road alone,
cutting a forlorn figure, I imagine.

In a single sentence we approach ourselves.
We meet, exchange pleasantries, and are soon parted;
gladly relieved of our beautiful burden.


Gifts of crickets and quicklime.
Gifts of camellias and tiger’s wine.
Kohl, so you may outline your glance.
Lapis lazuli, for the skies in morning.

But isn’t it hard on Earth?
Shouldn’t we be more practical?
The flask of water for the long desert run.
A flint for fire-starting.
Butter and flour for our hunger.
Nothing superfluous. No luxury.
No baubles meant for idle hands or mind.

Even a palace intended for a demigod
requires a base and firm foundation.

Even a lightbeam is grounded in science.

Moving Target

I think you’ll find I’m wearing a peanut costume.
I think you’ll find me in the interstellar chicken coop.
That I’m the cloven-footed boy declaring himself to be Pan
or a dud bomb or I’m struggling with a flashlight.
I’m like a punch in the lamb or golf cart’s battery.
I have charcoal incisors.

Stare, bloody ingrate, look hard and you’ll see
a man with a mouthful of trash cans and trees.
You’ll find me in the theatre of fits,
in the outhouse sewing bees, openly debating alien largesse.
As if a blind man who doesn’t like what he sees,
you’ll find I’m actually two princes buried under the stairs.
That I’m a misplaced government document.
A fractal in the cinema of the damned.