Chaos is a hanging thread—minor
but out of place, insignificant in infinity,
says the keeper of Shangri-la.
On the corner of Trinity and Church,
a small girl offers me the sun for a nickel
and I’d gladly take control of the solar system
but do not have a nickel.
The sun, with its watery-urine yellow
and burning stench, is bitter; its rays are loud.
Give me the moon, free and great pacifist—
a showstopper when it wants to be.
Even Clotho spun at its pace.
Fear the insignificant, says the
keeper of Shangri-la. Because there is one,
there are many.
Consider the infauna
that will someday rule the world,
their benthic plots.
Life is? Six eggs in one basket,
half dozen in the other. It’s the soft bottom
of pride that gets in the way.
That which surrounds has its own trickery.
Don’t be fooled by the butterfly;
it would kill if only its mouth were bigger.