Virtues of Imperialism, #60

Intrude, great infallible
world, impinge upon my nap,
interfere into these dreams
with your sly trespass, hours
infringing on a warm day,
spinning of the globe invades.
I pray to violate laws
of physics, disturb forces
of nature, disrupt the flow
of electrons, interrupt
and muddle the sexton
of the barges turning round
the Horn of Africa. Great
muscled beast of time, watch
in what course you poke your nose.

Not to be rude, to be clear,
the hinge that opens the door
here opens into hazy
half-dreams, passes barriers
of local time, infringes
on hope as one thought invades
another, one lands late
to the party, disturbs those
who were early, disrupts A
to B, interrupts, says, “See,
this medal is gaseous.” Screams
“Gunboat. Gin Blossom. Massage.”
The dreams horn in, drunk, passed out,
weak and wavering, great heap,
whistle snored from his cold nose.

Intrude in my politics,
my business, world
leader, corporate sponsor, tag
yourself onto the first thought,
the last, points of high drama,
every fifteen minutes, show
off your wares. In Spain
the sidewalks rise up above
the roots of trees, sad spin art
of sun and leaf. I’m sleeping.
Whatever thread, narrative
my life weaves has muddled now
into a grey sky, hazy,
cloudy, born of a land passed
language, passed muscle, into
a dog’s life led by his nose.

Gertrude once told me my hands,
these long hinges of fingers
were born to play piano.
She’d say she could almost hear
the great range of notes rise up
from their soft tips, as if made
from some gone locale. But late
I blossomed, in mind, body,
music. What a waste, these hands,
shy nails, ashamed knuckles,
the first voices to a dream.
Barge in silly painting, odd
sculpture of great horned dodo,
let this muscle be your guide,
spot the long mouths passed your nose.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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