Well,
I wouldn’t wanna kiss it—
it’s illicit, it’s illegal said the scholar,
said the weasel, said the anger
it inspires—
said the shady and the slanted,
they are sick, they are twisted,
(those who bow down and kiss it)—
said the fable with a flourish
it’s okay if it’s implicit
it’s the garlic in the biscuit —
They are fascists, they are wicked
(those who stoop to revere it) —
goddess bless the rhyme-driven said
the vowel, said the ribbon, said the salt
in the season, and the bolt in the lightning
said the shift
in rhythm — it’s all good it’s all play
said the butter, said the dead,
said the bawdy, said
the pollen of the hour, said the grain
in the word
and its weird little power—
juxtaposed and engendered,
paired up or neatly slaughtered,
slammed shut or long remembered,
knotted up or grand
daughtered, from candle stick
to stream the singing is the thing —
how life is but a dream.