You annihilate me daily.
what would she think if she saw?
am I a blip? am I a man?
am I the pool beneath the wick?
melted self to reflect the flame?
You draw hornets out the nests you built
in the rusty spokes, my spinning wheels.
I’ve been stung hundreds of times, ankles
swollen, immobilized, prone red infected
Wiser men who know better,
who don’t write sentimental poetry,
burn down her altars.
Time too valuable, these men marry
banging CPAs, sperm out high school soccer
[Soccer is the football of the future,
and wise men invest in the future.]
I am not a wise man. I’ve read
great things about honey, I can’t
bear all these bees but
honey reflects in amber, all wavy.
A scientist of sweet, I write
free verse grammatical apocalypse,
transcend time space and subject matter,
poke my finger inside the garbage disposal
to hold my breath, extend the metaphor
for slow burn Gaussian blur, the fear to
wake up to the next absurd stanza.
I resented you, the way you
snipped the central cross-stitch.
Now I see! you meant to
pull the stuffing out this
honey-drunk, beestung bear.
The wise men all call me crazy.
But Kali says, to the latest taping’s
starstruck studio audience:
“And you thought his FUR was soft!”
Kali, on the Insomniac Shopping Network:
“Feel his inside cotton!” As a model pulls
a handful, presses the honey bear’s contents
against her blushing, or is she made-up? cheek.
“Two at time! More! There’s plenty left.”
Product models swarm the sound stage,
and inside’s a skein of skinny fingers, cotton fibers.
The apple of my glossy button eyes
is the stinger, the needle that pokes
to draw the string through
to knot, both ends, a smile.
"Real bears don’t smile!" scoff
My tiny black button eyes reflect
the frightened children too:
Kali love makes the little bear