Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Dali on Acid

Or maybe it’s the work of a Dali wanna-be, j-peg 
surrealism for the twenty-first century. 
His palette, Technicolor shades
of Kodachrome-induced mordant dye-stuff;
his tint neon; his blue
the blue of windshield washer fluid;
his yellow exclusively nuclear.

There is a lighthouse that belongs on the moon,
but not any moon, a moon that encircles a paint factory
where the brushes bristle over who
revolves around whom.  Translucent green reeds grip
the water’s edge and bend their top-heaviness
toward the centrifuge of radiation fallout.  

And that celestial body that peers out
over gossamer-wing clouds?  A giant breast. 
Or a white chocolate Hershey Kiss. 
Same thing.  It’s all the same thing:
sex and food, art and god.

Did I say gossamer wing?

Dickinson used the word tulle
to denote the ethereal; even silk
is too heavy with the weight of this world. 
Even prayer gets short-circuited, rerouted,
translated into waves that never
touch the shore no matter

how electric.

Rumi’s shepherd knew that everyone experiences god
in her own way.  Still, Moses had to be told.

Is it any wonder we haven’t learned yet?