No doubt the prospect of a tooth
Infected by a microbe’s lack of ruth
Conjures scenes of horror and dismay
To convert each healthy hair from black to gray.
Would that dentist’s eyes, hard merciless,
Could fascinate, not generate distress.
Those pupils could, in hypnotic power
Soothe me to sleep for torture’s hour.
So while I sail 3through golden dreamland seas
My dentist grinds and chips at my disease,
Bores holes and stuffs them with a sturdy filling,
A process consciousness finds less than thrilling.
Then, rising with a renewed smile,
I congratulate his skill and clever guile
And still a captive to his guiding will
Spread wide my billfold and overpay his bill
Beneath all sense and sensation
Where the secret gears revolve,
Where the snap and slap of molecules
Enforce the chains of interaction
Tightly confined by history’s
Ken of missteps to disaster,
Processes proceed to decree
What whims may move to generate
Solidities of what we think as will.
This hubris each of us accepts
That we decide how and what and when
Discounts continuity’s mechanics,
Ignores those flicks of memory,
Twitches of perception,
Are chemistry and circumstance.
We luxuriate in self deception
We are a cosmetic flower
Perched within this strange beast’s hair.
The chill air tumbles down from the moon
And splashes through trembling leaves
Tainted by the icebergs of Europa.
Silently, like a frenzied animal,
The nightwind pokes its nose
Into tight corners, stirring debris and dust
To fashion merry whirlwinds
Of candy wrappers, dying balloons
Pigeon feathers, scattered popcorn
And torn fragments of a loser’s tickets
To the lottery. Suddenly, as if
With a whoop of joy,
It seizes sheets of tabloid,
Triumphantly kites them high
Above the peaks of the central tent
And, like children playing follow me,
They troop through the brass forest
Of the carousel. A frozen lion
Puts on a cocked hat, a rearing horse
Gains a paper mask. As if tired of the game,
The remaining sheets collapse in chuckles
On the central machinery.
The wind runs its fingertips along a line of lights
To make them dance in sinusoidal glee.
It shakes the canvas posters of the sideshows
Distorting even further the twisted human portraits
And then skoots off into the big top.
With skill it coordinates
The pendulums of trapezes.
It tosses handfulls of sawdust on the empty seats
Which shine in fascination at its high jinks.
Then, bored with play, it exits to the night
And back up to the stars.
The crack of dawn
Through which dreams
Leak away is
The whip sound
Which drives the day.
You cannot flee
Serendipity that roars
To free the creatures
That scurry out of dust,
Out of rust that may disgust
With necessity. The pulse
Of impulse cannot be denied
Whether the brain, or the gut
Nudge the fudge of indecision
Is of small concern.
The turn of time stirs what occurs
Into fate that must collate
The crash of trash to decorate
The future with the past.
No need to heed what seed
Might sprout of what turns out.
What is is. The fizz of continuity
Blossoms into perpetuity
To shove away another day
Which dies in bloody sunset
With regret or relief.
One day is brief, a minor thief
Of time to forget.
I still struggle not to sink
Down to docile death.
The music of the minutes
Fills my spinnaker
For direction and for hope.
The seas ahead look rough,
Yet, I plow on.
Each day’s tack out and back
Makes my course along a plot
That strokes my appetite for mystery.
The El Dorados long have vanished from my charts.
I am satisfied to feel the winds,
Sense the seas, watch the waves
Rock the unattainable horizon,
Gyrate the constellations of the night.
The Sun which cedes the day to night does not vanish
But plays peekaboo with the planet
Which spins the universe to display
The cosmos comprised
Of other suns invisible by day.
So that which over rides infinity
With local flame
Must shut its eyes
To surprise reality
With a childish game.
The bird of day with wings of light
Sweeps off galaxies to reaffirm
Dominance of proximities
That do not spare
Entirety from local glare.