apollo
The plaid experience of a cat’s ninth life,
concluding nothing: the purple crayon box
was either a blue or red facsimile of my
uncle’s barn past the dyke, the pond,
the field of dumb flowers, maples
and crows pecking at the floodgates
above a yellow ditch of limestone
that keeps itself nearly parallel
to the two-headed fence of cattle wire,
which stretches out for this parable;
meanwhile, facing the plaid stain
of myself among Hieronymus’s
foolish yolk of vox-mouthed louts
and yodelers; feeling as bogus,
knotted brown and heavy as a stilt-legged dug-
out or dumbbell beneath the matador’s hood.
Oh how is that not sensitive?
Oh that crooked yellow stump
again (?) I wonder who tripped over the gumball first,
blazing through the helium warmth–among the catch
weeds and goosegrass. Like a little mustard
seed or red engine red that couldn’t stop
toking past the pink mouth of the mound that Watt
stepped off towards his own glassy skull of Gol-
gotha. It happens all the time, whistling for
an attic’s length of rope; the trigger’s acquittal
of a banjo snaking through its revolving door
of strychnine: then the kind glass of milk, ending
a cat’s ninth life; that while, towards the crowded sunset,
you’re still thumbing your nose, on one of god’s donkeys.
eh_thursday, March 16. y'17
