Nothing, Nobody, Be Quiet

That poetry might be a twig
of ontological squeamishness
is a mighty fine thought

for a squirrel afoot
it's always morning here
inside the light box

of your new head
you're the Pope raining
questionable art on the Square

where bipeds gather not capybaras
hierophants mule not muse
if we could feign being sorry

we'd be a museum. nix that
It's almost Halloween inside the sea
and everywhere else

I get this Javier Bardem feeling
from the anesthesia of your words
I think I'm supposed to leap

like the people in commercials
or the dying in the harpstrings
of a bridge that image is stolen

What else isn't, even life
the molecules with which I salute
your pretty lips, a ruse, a money

Here the Metaphor Police arrive
as in Fahrenheit Who Cares and tuck
you into a book that mummifies

the child you were in the casinos
that smelled of the ocean. the child whore
at the center of each poet. a splendid thing

pretty baby, i whisper. glass plates
of Storyville. cyanotypes of you
cyanotypes of me was just on the gay radio