You have reminded me I am not a robot. Thank you
For your zealotry, your metal-American luridness,
Without which this pulpit is as the ransacked sarcophagus
Rotting swiftly in the modern light. I am your architect
Tonight. The infrastructure of our humans wanes,
But not the pleasures you’ll find flasked
Beneath your seats—drink up. Dream up another coast
While my words usher in one bald hallucination
. Let us begin by actualizing fears:
Insistent are we the bogeyman is real. (The moneyman
Will take your gift afore the exit; lest you forget,
I remind). Tsunamis crest with every family,
Nuclear or god-despised, playing in the leaf-strewn yard,
Studies show. Efforts to improve have been, in a word,
Threnodic. Enough has not been to done to curb the appetites
Of pets—the markets shudder like the loins of Leda,
Loosening at this index. Gyres later, bails left out
To dry, this nation’s horticulture, prospect of thin
Domesticates may be preserved—but we need gyres.
I have gyres. I am one walking gyre. I bleed gyres
Like I bleed red, white, and blues jazz on iTunes.
I am one of you.
. I proceed to Caravaggio: more please.
I will bring back High Renaissance aesthetics in the form
Of free internet for all—to recover copacetic senses
In this economy so buried in the guideless Arizona desert
Only underground officials glimpse its gunmetal silo
Is my sole mission. I am not your uncle’s politician.
I am your uncle gifting shit Christmas presents
To his foes. What does this have to do with art, you ask?
I’m glad you did: keep asking. Keep telling me I can’t.
I will. I’ll hang this once-woven tapestry in the MET again,
Yet not before you crown me keeper of the codes.
Not one wink before. I’ll be your servant and your king,
Your state-appointed portrait drawer.
. . Hypocrisy
At tea-time I won’t tolerate. We must do better
When we speak of nothings, must be truer and less vile.
I will stipulate that lovers be accountable to words,
Mere words, and vie with time to stare with no intent.
Imagine Freedom as the medium through which
Spirit travels unbuffeted. Warren Buffett is in on this,
And I will press my lips against his lips, against the lips
Of each mouth in the private sector if a kiss
Will marry future, past, and present. This is my
Public works project. Objections? Your silence
Speaks of wonderment—but it is song I need,
Dear friends, your last delicious, whipped aria
Of approved molasses.
. I want to bring to light several
Major weaknesses. Sometimes I see my visage
In crystal-clear lakes and like Narcissus forget I am myself
Yet love myself like I love cold October rain.
For many hours in a day, my output is straight nonsense;
Even as I speak I speak of tilt-shift photography
Amongst other artifices, other bendings of light.
Every morning I wake up and know I have not breathed
Enough throughout the night, have not dreamed up enough
Legislation to veto to applause. My phantasmagoria decay
Apace with institutions—I am the world’s metronome,
I am ashamed to say, not too proud to believe.
This nation must be painted loud—but I have never
Dressed in color.
. Let the primaries and first caucuses
Be my easel and my palette. In Iowa I found myself,
In Texas: delirium tremendum et fascinans;
Mysterious and numinous, this night in Nevada violesces
Like the Aurora Borealis. Like the sun’s expectorations,
I will beat against the firmament with firm showers
Of my party’s fists. This is the me I make for you. This is
The Salt Lake City in my eyes, every city in my sinews
Sculpted with immaculate precision. Conceived, lend me
Your minds. We have an image to reconstitute,
And great restorers to re-find. Are you bored with
Warring angels? Join me. I have smitten saints and
Bowdlerized a wise man. We can have warriors
On every street, if you’ll have me.