Mow the lawn
goes the tune
of much of the afternoon.
And when not mowing,
I watch a show of discovery:
outing and moving out
via cauda pavonis—
prima materia transmuted,
grass a kind of catalyst.
A quivering cartoon mouth sings a tune,
kissing cousin of the Rolling Stones “mouth and lips” logo
floating disembodied amid space scenes and stairways
the ascents and descents of an inner construction site
arranged along the face of a pyramid.
Sun-heads and Moon-heads wave from adjacent stairwells
That final ordnance
a spry sparrow of a chapbook,
as set in its way as Zen in the Art of Archery
but healthy as a hound,
a quick study.
I’m missing following you
What was then is now
not a bear but a trap—
“Moral”: stand there, act that
“Which first, meat or engine?”
welcome, give rise, help raise
Urged rumble at cochlear dawn:
A multi-headed virtual army
wielding Pitchfork, chanting atop a backbeat.
“Doggone criminals,” mutters the Demiurge,
the Injustice League foil to Shelley’s
bull goose legislator
in the undercommons of a lax bro
Of your “Many”
your Class Struggle Avatars
your Elected Representatives
here at the Nancy Reagan psychic hotline
(“This call may be monitored—
please wait, please hold”)
with whom do you wish to speak?
With those who are
as from the heads of gods
and who are thus
in all the senses to which consciousness has been as yet made to refer
Since we came to get down,
and since we are as gods,
As Brand says,
we might as well get good at it.
So, in place of what is:
joined with those who have been at these tasks all along
we must build it, conjure it—at the very least, dream it—here, now,
hidden from the sense of those who rule,
the utopia in which none may act as master.