COUNTING THE HAIRS IN MY FIVE-TIERED, TERRACED RAZOR BLADE
Counting the hairs in my five-tiered, terraced razor blade
trying to decide if this is the hanging gardens of Babylon
or life among the Incas at Machu Picha. Second hand
increments of time I’m threshing like a big, old paddlewheel
that’s a legend on the river of its own mindstream.
Maybe a wheat field. This one’s mine. It’ll do fine.
Good crop of sundials this year. And then the lean
silo of dreams that leave you as empty as one of the plagues
of Egypt. Black dwarf. Dark halo. Evil gill of blades
on a grey nurse and a thresher shark. I’ll lead them
across the desert to the Red Sea like a feeding frenzy
and drown them like pharoah’s chariots in their own blood.
How do you make a glacier part? Ice pick through the heart
like Trotsky in Mexico, or shave off some ice
with my new Fusion razor blades like Freddy Krueger
with his switchblade bouquet of pentagonal hands?
Time, ekaksana, the sensation of a gap between
thoughts. What’s in there? Just thought I’d ask
because I just think I slipped through the cracks of one
like Castor and Pollux jumping into a chasm to save Rome.
Leucippus and Democritus, Romulus and Remus, Castor and Pollux?
God, there are a lot more twins in the world than I thought.
Things are a lot quieter now. Diesel percolating the coffee
outside my window while a trucker walks into a bank.
If you learn to play with your delusions correctly,
and Isadora Duncan in her fragrances of silk and northern lights,
or better yet, feathered boas, flying snakes, her veils, her veils, her veils.
Janis Joplin when her plumage was a flamingo on heroin
will back me up on this. Separation, not money
is the root of all evil. Evil doesn’t have a root on it.
That tree bears nothing but leaves. No fruit.
Squander your heart on the world if you want to make a big impression
on your bathroom mirror. Or your green room. Smooth. Clear. Aromatic
as a talced baby’s ass. But just remember you’re mowing weeds
not stargrass. Nicks and tics of a waterclock
pouring out of the hot water tap as you lather your face
in quantum foam and begin to shave like a wave
running up on the beach a little higher each time
the tractor turns around boustrophically to make
a labyrinth you’re trying too hard not be lost in
because you want to look as good and prepared
as any other corpse in Perth when you go out there.
That’s drastic. But probably true. But you never know.
Probably lets enough light through the storm shutters
of my hurricane, science fiction razor for small miracles
to show up on the powerlines like a sparrow making a pitstop.
Sometimes. Though I feel uneasy about relying upon that
because I don’t want to give any more offence to my karma
by putting out food for thought for a bluebird under the feeders
when it might be a turkey vulture unlacing an old boot of roadkill.