Reading
Jayne Cortez
I’m
using my plain brain to imagine her fancy cortex. As if my Lowly
mollusk could wear so exalted a mantle as her pontifex Pallium.
As if the knots and tangles of my twisted psyche could mesh
with her intricate synaptic network of condensed neural convolutions.
As if my simple chalk could fossilize the memory of her
monumental reefs of caulifloral coral. As if my shallow unschooled
shoals could reckon the calculus of her kink’s brainwave
tsunami. As if the pedestrian software of my mundane
explorer could map as rounded colonies the terra incognita of her
undiscovered hemispheres. As if the speculative diagnosis of
my imaging technology could chart the direction of her intuitive
intellect. As if the inquisitive iris of my galaxy-orbiting
telescope could see as far as her vision. As if the trained nostrils
of my nacro-bloodhound could sniff out what she senses
in the wind. As if my duty-free bottle of jerk sauce could simulate
the fire ant picante that inflames her tongue of rage. As if the
gray matter of my dim bulb could be enlightened by the brilliance
of her burning watts. As if her divergent universification
might fancy the microcosm of my prosaic mind.
Music for Homemade Instruments
I dug you artless, I dug you out. Did you re-do? You dug me less, art. You dug, let’s do art. You dug me, less art. Did you re-do? If I left art out, you dug. My artless dug-out. You dug, let art out. Did you re-do, dug-out canoe? Easy as a porkpie piper-led cinch. Easy as a baby bounce. Hop on pot, tin pan man. Original abstract, did you re-do it? Betting on shy cargo, strutting dimpled low-cal strumpets employ a hipster to blow up the native formica. Then divided efficiency on hairnets, flukes, faux saxons. You dug, did you re-do? Ever curtained to experiment with strumpet strutting. Now curtains to milk laboratory. Desecrated flukes & panics displayed by mute politicians all over this whirly-gig. A well known mocker of lurching unused brains, tribal & lustrous diddlysquats, Latin dimension crepe paper & muscular stacks. Curtains for perky strumpets strutting with mites in the twilight of their origami funkier papoose. Thanks for patting wood at flatland. Thanks for bamboozle flukes at Bama, my seedy medication. Thanks for my name in the yoohoo. Continental camp-out, percolating throughout this whirly-gig on faux saxon flukes. Artless, you dug. Did you re-do?
No comments:
Post a Comment