Stealing past the screaming kettle
in the Gorgon’s kitchen
I sat before the oven to pray to the
domestic gods.
Leaning forward the Pacific
rushing in my ears
I nearly tumbled
into the magpies
I was baking.
Just before my conscious
fell prey to the void it spit out relentless, dream-sewn
images of you.
and who else did I expect?
You were playing bass in
Krishna’s skin,
hues of blues swept from
your strings,
pulled from your three eyes.
I’m baking, still, learning—
the amount of curry
will be right when I can
smell my mother in the pot before me.
I never write about my father, because,
to be honest I
see him every day,
wrestle with him every time I
glance into a looking glass.
and OH, I’m so late…
fifty years or so,
but I arrived dressed
for the occasion.
My endless, spilling brown hair now
out of place.
The crust I’ve created crumbles to
Bob Dylan, light yellow custard within that
mimics his biting, citrus mourn.
Shards of Megalodon teeth for texture,
this concoction will make you stronger sister;
I wanted to feed you
the strongest things I know.
Nutrition to teach you value:
I value you
even though you
do not.
I want no more
fucking pornography.
Two-bit one-liners that squeal every time you
jab something up an orifice.
Shallow “love” fit for
one-handed jocks,
empty rappers.
They fly, the frustrated famous,
in the mouth of crows[2] to the
fifth ring[3], lifted simply
because they had that
Sullen, new age,
aluminum hue.
I needn’t worry,
Atman is Brahman.
I’ve reopened a
hippie’s wardrobe,
and drenched myself in teal and violet oldies
like the water from the Ganges.
Of gods and demons,
the nature of the beast is under my belt—
but thank gods,
you’ve got that tamed, too.
[2] in that crows and similar birds steal shiny objects for decoration in their nests out of fancy, not necessity
[3] 5th ring of Hell in Dante’s Inferno houses the Sullen, who lay drowning in a river of mud.
