Why I Haven’t “Outgrown Surrealism,” No Matter What That Moron Reviewer Wrote
I still love the sound of breaking,
the tearing of the page, fruit that splits
when it’s ripe. Not sticks and string
or a 30-page instruction manual
when I need a kite, when I need
a dragon in the sky. More and more
only the irrational holds me
to this earth not that I need Apollo
knocking off my helmet to tell me so.
Give me a bird crashing a window
in the darkness of daylight, a red
wine stain on my good white shirt
and a dog-park where we scatter Chloe,
some blowing back on our shoes in a very
Chloe-like manner, two living dogs
coming up to us wagging hard enough
to levitate in recognition. The body
is a vessel of flames flickering
and even in dreams I say my love’s
name so picture me for verisimilitude
made entirely of sunflowers but keep
the long scar in the center of my chest,
under it a grim doctrine frolicks
on a dissecting table. I who have been
restored by cardiac shocks, dropped
into morning wanton and struck.
