Knot for Naught
Not even made-to-measure.
Not like gnawing on the throbbing
hang-nail of love.
Not like sun-hungry doves
on a beer-run.
Not like a dog, overlapped
by his own pedigree.
Not, especially, like Dylan Thomas
on wobbly axles.
Not like the moon fleshed out.
Or yer mom in yoga tights.
Not the crackle of the gravel.
Not (no way) the staggered chakra.
Not the spoons of vicissitude; the forks
Not unlike Wordsworthian locutions.
Not (in a trillion years) the pistol-
Not to say: knot for naught,
but really … come on.
“Kids: Be idle. Your world depends on it”
You’d be jealous.
To be here in the un-yoked
momentary blindness. Not
missing giggling past the porno
shop or arguing the missed
jurisdiction of our coolth—saying:
“I’m going to sight my sets a little
blossoms drop bombs on the un-
soaked notion of a sick ocean;
a frolic in the zucchini field
Forget finding obsolete teeth
in the street: fresh-blooded and flesh-
Scratch rescinding into night, pushing
our children to the thrum of something
No stopping to browse The Terror Shop:
Thick in the Business of Innocence.
In this battered matter (of fact), your
envy would brim, spill over—no …
vehicle your every whim.