Dean Young


 


New Leash on Life
                           

When I was a child, I was a very old man.
Not about to let that happen again.
Waylaid by glissandos, an alias approached
in the cross-eyed vegetable aisle, harking unto
a more primitive me, saying the I I am
need not be, a mind must be lost to be
found. Rain stripped its silver lame
jumpsuit down, comely as strewn sugar,
exactly how I imagined it would never happen
happening, upsiding my underworld
so it's summer in this other hemisphere,
tweets arising from the feathered matrix,
the monster starting a lettuce garden
on what used to be his ice berg, the cough
suspended in the air since the death of Keats
an adequate framing device. All so brief
but we weren't meant to keep these faces
straight so here, I offer you the porno-
graphic screen-saver of my thought, you
its true starress




© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review