FROG SPITTLE AND GREEN POND FROTH
Frog spittle and green pond froth organic enough
to rebuke the crystallographer of ice that’s coming
when life goes underground to hibernate in its own starmud
numb with the inoculation it’s been given
to protect it against its own pain thresholds.
As earth approaches the sun, it gets colder
above the waist, and hotter below,
the occasional bubble of life locked in the eyes
of a bright vacancy as it rises to the surface of the mirror.
And at night, the dark abundance of stars so clear
they’re cruel. So abysmally remote and unconcerned
they burn your eyes like dry ice, sublimate
like the tears of ghosts on a hot stove, hiss
and dissipate like the wavelengths of vaporous snakes
impatient with dancing to a syrinx of icicles
on a pentatonic scale in common with panpipes
that prefer to feather the phoenix in flames
than risk the fire of a dragon in full plumage.
Things go round circumpolarly like Draco
and the planet has a change of heart. She loves me,
she loves me not. The third eye of the uncertain mystic
freezes in the wine glass like a dirty winter window,
and summer’s ambivalence is frosted over
with brittle absolutes that leave no room for doubt.
Cataracts in the eye. Flowers in the sky and vice versa
when the earth is at apogee in the southern hemisphere
and the grass is green below the waist that the sun
fried brown, and above, crucified crosses upside down.
But for now, frog spittle and green pond froth,
exhausted waterlilies letting it all hang out
like the Buddha’s dirty laundry on a tinfoil starmap,
wasps like angry drunks in the windfalls of the orchards,
the crickets and frogs hoarse with the exhortatory
white noise of procreation run amok in the swamps,
the bears in the dumps among the berries,
larding their lairs for seven lean kinds of coma
as the campers and the geese go south
of the porous borders between the sundials
of the American dream, and the frozen waterclocks
of the snowblind mindstreams further north
where time stops and space is the measure
of the speed of thought outpacing the light into the dark.
As the days grow colder and dwindle into matchstick runts
I’ll squander fire the way, when things were warmer,
I squandered the waters of life on fountains and waterbirds
spuming in courtship, making a big splash of moonlight
on beautiful loons that swam away unperturbed.
I’ll sit up late in the night, listening to the pilot light
on a gas furnace as if the eternal flame were about to go out
and leave me catatonically morose and mentally disturbed
as the desk I write at, making lyrical overtures
to the smoke in the room, demonic loveletters that set
the scarecrows on fire like the strawdogs of harvests past
and make the ice queens weep with warnings of global warming.
Creature of extremes, I’ll live one moment like a dolmen
in the tundra of my dreams, trying to decipher the runes
of the glacial striations on my crystal skull
like Nazca lines on on my prefrontal plateau
for any sign the aliens are about to leave me alone.
And the next I’ll be kissing the Tyrian purple passage
at the end of my frozen fingertips like Phoenician snails
as if I’d been drinking wine with the sea around my mouth,
and the poems were just pouring out of me
like a hemophiliac in a blue blood bank in front
of a firing squad of eleven revolutionary stars and one
that’s a capitalist trying to recoup its investment in life
by drawing a blank that strikes like Rasputin
on the margins of a ricocheting heart, bruised
by the blood flow of a rose in the snow it couldn’t stop.