Co-Conspirators E-anthology

by Jeffrey Jullich

Faster Than Vista

Ready to get place target
the path of then arrow dipped in cat gut.
I should tell the mask scuba about horned streets
and how furthermore whereby piled in Chinese boxes
and cricket cages, crates of spices, too, trudge
revision: skip on the mercurial to the source,
a roof propped or evolved on poles,
and how my heartbeat gladdens to see the door chewed.
This person which beside the bedside water, old water,
saw the model photographed and the camera Gomorrah
saw the super-person as in fairy theory
and took the language to befit a mother's dulcet nihilism.

But hair has been combed with a tuning fork first,
the spoon a concave bed for the littlest ego,
and dipping hair in sink then lace in brocade indefinitely
it was you, and you were sure: those trees that have two legs
have their archipelago of apologies;
those selves etched by pin in scrimscraw,
and the very ivory, that have their roots a tassel
have the apologies of the roaring zoo. But sorry?
Because the hair of the world was not wet
it was not your boudoir world conceived by an engulfment,
or microscopic seed made infertile by the pharmacist.
So tell the pharmacist the slug to cap rain in a jar
and drink a chapter. Tell him lethal healed by a leisurely weekend.

I put aluminum foil to my head and tapped
the dense forehead at the T.V. antenna all a view
to send you this message, wireless: a picture, the beacon iconography
of taxis whizzing toward the dwarfed
vanishing point, and one discus taxi filled to capacity
with your macrocosm, your crocus springtime crucial dealt,
and an abiding sense aroma that because
neither the Stop of the cherry stop signs nor the sunny holograms
pertain to you directly, you were sure. They were extant.
The driver held the steering wheel
and his wise contemplation was near the perfect circle.

first published in Caliban, 1987

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