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"Veranda Meditation (Blasted Thumb)"
Summer has arrived, worms and other
crawly things weather the thunder in my petunia's hidey-hole.
When the sun gets back from Cloud Court
she basks proudly in its follow-spot
daring the sumac to spit.
She dances to the industrial throb from the multilingual
backyards of rocky block
with Vincent's charm bracelet clanging ecstatically
against the unauthorized ladder. Bordello takeout
wafts onion and lubricant aromas into the full-moon morning
of my disarray.
Yes, pink shivers in the warm breeze, tossed as if by surf
in the back porch light of Monday breakfast.
I taste my mustache and remember fresh jets
drying on my arm like champagne crust.
In the doorway of my second dream again I smell
tea-tree oil from a blasted thumb. Today I have no name.
Love is a matter of Disney architecture and fancy stationery.
In the drift of the double-ring, mammals require
the healing touch of one who advertises hirsute ethnicity.
Christ on the crotch, raised to the mouth of heaven:
bless you, my little piece of spit, roller-coaster your
synapses, shake the lenses from your eyes and deposit you
spermless on the tilted boardwalk in time for never-lovers
to return all flirty and solicitous.
Count backwards to the day of kisslessness.
The laundry fumes gas me unconscious.
I am in danger of achieving though apparently
in no danger of overachieving. My tools are words,
my scalpel and a blue stick. Of this worlds
can be made but not won. I touch, I heal, mostly myself.
I am enough at my desk where dreams bulge like belly to belt.
-- Don Shewey
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