Like bar codes
refusing
over and over
to be scanned,
our eyes work hard
to preserve
their unpurchased nature.
Meanwhile,
The Customer
just keeps on standing there—
a frightening, superhuman patience.
God knows
what the dude sees
in our nervous, dying
flower patterns.
Something, perhaps,
a bit more cheery
than streaks of pigment
exploding
big bang style
from an infuriatingly impersonal dot.
Any fool with a flashlight
and a mirror
will tell you:
they’re fantastically fetal,
curled in on themselves—
so blissfully bathed in their own counterculture
they fail to notice
our mainstream intelligence.
Would it really be
so far fetched
to consider them
an otherworldly installation—
the cutting edge statement
of an artist
from a distant Burning Man
whose chosen venue is
the human head—
a freaky genius
who prefers to let his marinated masterpieces
speak for themselves?
In this scenario,
humans are simply
a body of work,
a strolling art gallery
tenderly framing
intimate, orb-shaped portraits
that capture
the embarrassingly romantic mood
existence was in
when it dreamed of:
Dipping
in a pool of iridescent olive
in Des Moines,
relaxing in a bath
of dappled hazel light
in Budapest,
swishing through some chilly blue
on a sweltering day
in Delhi,
and countless other fairy tale locales
in which oneness might, one day
bump into us—
falling hopelessly in love
all over again,
with itself.
This, of course, is all conjecture.
But this much is for sure:
.
Those lip-locked lovers
(seer and seen)
have found a stunning way
to wet kiss.
