Lab Report on Absinthe

All of a sudden, a silver spoon
reminded the green eye
of Paris.
When the wind lit the red candle,
up woke the night.

And Rimbaud gave a smile.
The instant my tongue was knotted,
the instant my throat caught fire,
the instant my breast was shredded,
the instant my flesh began to fester,
he gave a long quiet sigh, lifted a childlike brow,
and whistled at the Big Dipper.

The golden ear of Von Gogh,
the cold tulips of Wilde and the
vast woe Degas built
by a couple wooden tables –
these I have seen none.

But I always remember the chicken droppings
by the little fence,
the radio from the bedroom
sounded like lichen.
The wind grew white as
mother’s broom swept across the spring,
and the world stole away
during my nap.
When awake,
a wall amused me more
with its wavy ruggedness than a book.
There clearly was one year when
sounds, colors and words all whirled like dewdrops
on a sunlit gossamer.

I always dream about the lean eucalyptus on the shore,
a gray-eyed boy from the Middle Ages.
Locks of wormwood color
fondles his brow long paled by prescribed bleedings –
He struggles for life in the ocean mist,
beautiful as a yawn.

And how I wish when women express sympathy,
or when men show a sense of humor,
their teeth would fall off
one by one,
like mud drops in a rain,
so the emptiness in their mouths would finally match
the emptiness in their hearts.

-- But these images I have seen none.

As corruption would lend me no talent,
all I’m left with are:
a pale moon
a shrill fountain
a cold cat
and a silent lover.
The wind blew out the candle,
the night stayed awake.

They say that literary Romance, like all Romance
is but a wishful buzz, life
a hangover morning –
Such is the lab report on Absinthe.