Unpaginated
By Paul Cameron Brown
Orchestrating violins thru whisky sky
clouds slide like billiard balls
a Jackie Gleason-Fats Domino
ricochet off greener velvet;
my pheasant escaping snow.
Jack Ketch the hangman
in brilliant plumage,
a touch of Borgia in
long, murderous hands.
The light of Capone in
steeple-dark eyes
running like a
haunted ship
around the white, facial disc.
Offset. Bold type.
I see you through pages
of my history book
only you're unpaginated.
Unclench the fist,
watch for effervescent islets,
erotic mounds of Venus or
protuberances called Marquesas
off my left hand.
Omens are the cloth
of dreams, scissors
used to open sky.
Work out cosmic debts -
figure stone footprints on Hollywood Blvd.
en route to Tijuana for a start;
I should have been Buddha incarnate
or curator at the Hermitage,
wild shaman for the Arapaho
not a cocoa butter salesman
from New Jersey, nagging
soda-jerk in L.A.
'bout the time
of Marilyn Monroe's
quick magic.
The Almighty unpacking orange crates,
sending Florida cold
unravelling karmic debt,
brass studs in your eye
mowing suckers with your scythe;
Birthpath urge, Father Time,
de-gutting chickens at Pleasure Farms
looking to Hindoos for clues
(placing roaches on a lucky few.)
This hurdle over stones
crass fortitude ensemble,
strange melange
spewing nails,
elbows round thin pain
gutter cathedral looming into view
where there
is more viscera than mirth before
ripples of enchantment
cause vibrations at four
and the phrenology
of universal measure
is a moon
ribcage in light
- gazelle of trees
a dinosaur in height.
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