the origami hat vendor has all-seeing eyes blinded
from staring at
the shining lavender buttocks of the suitcase,
eating gruel on the fulsome ship which floats
ungracefully upon the rice
as the night's sun and its hatless corn
both arise in hideous splendor in the lobby and
the soaking canine stands beneath an evil odiferous
sailboat conjuring in the land of onions
a place of terrible, tragic
rickshaws, where the
bland unspoken words
are always heard in purple and thrust the longing
paisley vomitus of an eternal but
temporary perfume where there is a cake
in the walnut tree of
life’s last book inside the library in Seville
of which he eats the colonel’s pie and remembers
but has forgotten in the confusion
of clarity which runs from
his delicate but senseless brown toenails to the sick
feline farness of that which is close, but not.

 
miles away, his love of a wet paramour, the fallen
antibiotic of his life,
sparks damply, like a sponge that has washed
away the
clean grime of filth upon
the sink of disaster which cannot be lifted without
the lissome grit
of that which removes bladders from the white
binoculars like the senile God of the
porch, to life’s death or leaves madras stains and
blows the loud but silent love like an ancient tuba
between the papered woman who looks
upon a turkey in the dark forest of pudding
and does not eat the crows in the
alleys of a French bicycle chain where only
half-witted birds migrate to
his shelf unit and seek to spill their seeds upon
the plates of greedy men who
sit in cafes and smoke under the eaves of the roof of
the library in Seville
and lays inside the bountiful nothingness of a canary

that has read the book of braying sorrow in the
confusing but bitter gibberish which is this poem.