Me I Disconnect From You

Published in Horizon Review

I'm alone in the dining room of an elegant hotel.
Breakfast for two costs 300 Euros.
Freshly shaved monks lamb down banana pancakes.
They are pleasing to the nose.
My table is made from 200-year old fiddleback maple
        salvaged from the bottom of Lake Superior.
Charley, don't want another beer.
My waiter wears orange plastic clogs.
He is pleasing to the ear.
A Swedish string quartet renders a baroque edition
        of Atom Heart Mother.
Siddhartha was a prince who owned three palaces
and six tiger rooms.
Do my wraparound Ray-Bans make me appear
        an ideologist?
An urologist?
I'm kithless? Solus cum solo?
Es ist mir Wurst.
My upside-down noodle kugel is bang on.
It's pleasing to the tongue.
My Galilee breakfast salad reminds me
        of Nana's knot garden.
The cellist's chest is Hokusai's The Great Wave.
This begs the question: "Why Swedes? Why now?"
Theories abound.
Tomorrow I'll take the train to see the Magritte
        at the casino in Knokke.
It's a port on the Belgian coast where Jacques Brel
        first sang Mathilde.
Tomorrow I'll fly.
Tomorrow I'll swallow a fly.
With breakfast, one should not be in a dash.
Solus cum sola.
Next month my doctors will induce nano planktons
        to boot-up between my ears to abet my eyes.
Am I a venial sin?
With God's grace I am humanly reparable?
Charley, champagne right away.
The violinist's cheeks are vanilla pudding.
Hera's garden was shaped like a target
        with cattails dead center.
Magritte was haunted by the memory of a door
        opening to a forest fire.
The Farfisaist untangles her rat's nest of effects.
Does my kohl make me appear a pataphysician?
I'm a monostich in the dining room of an elegiac hotel.
Breakfast for two costs 300 Baht.
On the table's inlaid screen a video artist recites Rilke
        to a white tiger.
The table's figuring produces the illusion of waves.
Tiger-striped waves.
The cellist's chest.
Subsidized municipal music schools?
Theories abound.
She is pleasing to my eye.
I grow young, I grow young,
        I shall wear my cock-ring in my tongue.
Scrutinize: overlook: to give the evil eye.
So I may scrutinize like a fighter jock,
        like Slim Pickens humping Little Boy.
Like Munchausen riding a cannonball.
The white tiger is cross-eyed and toothless and special:
        bred by incest.
Modern botany cannot account for the figuring of the species.
For the drooling in the species;
        so pleasing to my taste.

last updated Thursday, January 21, 2010 @ 6:13 AM