There is this feeling; it's a feeling like no other—with divine intervention, a certain amount of skill with your teeth—it is clearly an erotic poem, an effigy of the heart, one we have come in the hopes to receive.
Unaware of your destructive power, to send nudes for a fee, to reincarnate as a tidal wave after years of crying to the same song, in house shoes that look like caskets for parakeets, peacefully salivating, confident in your comedy, anointed in your synthetic religion, as Hope is the mule for inescapable Truth.
It is nice today; it’s a nice day to be a wild animal—suffering is done so much better with a view, not to mention eating with delicate anger, not to mention the panoply of threats, the hunters that double take when locking binoculars, when getting by translates to outlive, when life is just a bowl of cherry-flavored saturated fats.
I’m being negative again—look, if your dream is to become America’s Poet sometime soon, this may be it. I believe poetry can be successful in today’s crowded marketplace, it corroborates with the paradox on our hands; that misanthropes are just optimists whose standards haven’t yet been met. But what do you fill the vacuum with when meditating? As if you were the catheter of a dam, or a shrub playing the part of unforgiving western terrain in a school play.
Give the public a park and they will do strange things in it, with the flâneur of a brat—in life and otherwise—as a hoarder placing another ceramic cat onto terrazzo tile; there is a pleasure in achieving cylindrical stasis. Evidently it’s all connected to the sun, and the wind, which does not have sexual relations, not exactly, inconvenient as it may seem, like the house of Hades next door to Paradise I am always careful in my oasis.
What can I say—it’s easy being me. I can be me with my eyes closed. Didn’t you ever want to feel that total responsible pleasure like an echo through a canyon—greenery diluted into a muted freshness, light refracting from a stream like continuous margaritas, leaving at sunset into the night a vampire dressing with a touch of the theatrical, at times forgetting to regain the human form, a perversion in pure ecstasy, until your luck runs out.
Eric Amling is the author of From the Author’s Private Collection (Birds, LLC, 2015) and editor of the small press, After Hours Ltd. His most recent work can be found in BOMB, Prelude and the Poetry Foundation series, PoetryNow.