my crystal steropticon’s fallen short of sending
the right images to your left eye.
rapid response to promises generally stick it to
bright-eyed technicians burning
in some grey room in a federal building. how
does perception of sunlight
play into the birds’ singing when April’s faded
photos go 2-dimensional?
it’s trees muscling their way—roots-and-all—
onto the LED screen, beneath
the tracks, up north behind the cabin, and up
wind of Gorilla Island at the zoo:
“Comrades! Shall we deny our natures,
refusing to chase bright
green tennis balls around the pen?” the other
gorillas eyeball the speaker with
pent-up resignation. there has been no simian
Karl Marx. even so, winter
must yield to uproarious springtime yet again.
the trees whistle like large land
mammals. the train pursues its next destination
like an eyeless journeyman with
cracked fingers and a stick that plies the roadway
through a fog of time just this
side of urban singularity. passion should put an end
to anything more decadent,
should put on more deoderant instead, and the clock
pontificates with its hands pointing
west, even as the soil shakes off its last image from dusk
to night before. no surge of vision
to spot in all this endless mindfulness. hasn’t sameness
run its course at night yet?
Sachsen-Weimar is in the East, which is red, and timed
to go off when most of the
population’s asleep—too bad for them, when it’s all
cold and nothing to see and
a snow alert passes itself off as a ghost with cracked
eyes made of crystal. more
chocolate selves go to sleep with such a ruckus on
than escape the hampers of fate,
their rusted shutters groaning together, hold fast
for all time, happy to suck honey
or at eggs like some domestic bear-goddess whose paws
rend wet laundry as she takes it
out of the washer. where once was a hamper, now comes
the point in our program for
a blue-grey kind of alliteration. nobody waits for the
Ambassador of Antecedence
anymore. stuck fast to the rolling uncertainties
of dilemmas and resolutions.
