Story of One Girl, boy and the Hurricane

Mark the spot where the universe stops.
Paint it red; make it a sweet lemon jungle.
Design the fancy of it so it burns the eyes
forever with tight lines, imaginary vectors.

Girl runs down a road to oblivion holds
her life in her shattered holy thong;
Is she too old as child?

Young grapes melt on flush lips.
There, the world ends but begins
in the dichotomy of assent or refusal,
crime and punishment; pass slowly
through the levees, surf the swill,
measure in yourself the bare skin of her
surprise at the riot of pleasure and guilt—

Tomorrow, when she or I race back
to the boy/girl she knows when he
reads the heavens, writes charts,
star maps,-- he scratches white
ink pen on blackened olivine papers
to perjure history as the syllabus offers.

She walked with long lines, red lips
her breast were barely seen, but when
she looked down toward Hades she made
the right steps to catch his thing.

Beauty may be tawdry. It may exhaust
breathing in an instant of calumny.

Yes, we are ordinary atoms, part
of scattered flaws when ions
revise sub particles with
by trigonometry of calculus
solution sets for equations
as star-walk orbits when tedious force
big bang writ in ledger for sake
of hypothetical labels advertised
as the critical cure for history.

Strange how we corrupt the obvious
allow Plenty their fake maps
dark insider trails with gasoline
rivers with bloated entrails drab
oily rainbows of infested swill

We set Plenty loose in fake, deadly clouds
to drown pity -- that romantic melodrama,
and then deceit beleaguered by vector insects;
righteous thorn pines promote prayers
race desert birds until they lost feathers.

Flight shifts with unprovoked frequency
in reverie until Galileo wrote the history
of the 21st century in urban English
while Da Vinci plucked invisible birds --
fireworks to notebook, rival to Apollo.

Later, we climbed the dais at the field
house to hear the Sunday Preacher.
He was the miracle of next week,
a Congregational Lay man who
made his fortune in early Iowa.
Magic image chased fortune with failure
as usual, foot stomping Bible belt oratory
and the girl curled up in her fortress bed
long after some boy at whim runs away --
he is raw ten years later, and happy,
miserable in submission.

Remember how diabolic forces first met at
the edge of exponential universe; given this:
it's strange the child cannot predict steps goodbye;
perhaps, he whispered insincere, soft vowels lost
in a dirty river. Unkempt words will smudge
connections to the stars alternate gleam
no matter how distant when to where;--

We thrive in the graves of an archaic
and goodly city. Dizzy Gillespie rasps
his bent horn in perfect cacophony,
rides rifts cuts dangerous Hollywood hills
dropping small change in the offertory
and murder at the bar for the barfly
who slums with an incandescent scowl
tapping praise for the Lord and death
for the taxmen, as you would expect
the military drunk getting ready for duty.
Father why do you bring your child
to bars for shuffle board and the smell
of beer, rot gut and little girl breasts
on the daughter of the barkeep serving
hamburgers and French fries and grape soda.

The mold grows deeper. The dead drown
in graceful trances. The force of clouds
meets the fire of the water; the hurricane
the girl, the land and people scatter while
crime leak away as Plenty draws up plans
for stealing land ruined as anarchy’s scores.





xxxx