This is how we are:
Ignorant of Midas’ error,
Stubbornly, naturally dedicated to these bodies
And these minds
Of ours.

A white patron,
A black amasser,
And with such eyes,
It must be
Adept to see
Everything;
The past, the present, the coming, it ought to see
How it has risen from your dead flesh,
How it triumphs,
How it will turn to gold.

With those eyes,
It’s probably seen
A distinct mosaic portrait of the Holy Amalgamation
That could turn us all to gold.

We can ask the fly, of course,
But it is either dead
or gone.

But we know it knew,
As it had previously been, itself,
A fashion of philosopher’s stone
That is lost,
And needs our carrion
To surface.

These fingers
Under
Go
Metamorphosis
into a chrysalis
see how the tip of the index
pushes back the hour pointer
removing yesterday

these fingers
go
under
metamorphosing
into a chrysalis
as they crawl into the very likeness
of cocoon from which they came

withdrawing from the cacophony
of orphaned voices
and engines
and war
these fingers claim sanctuary
inside the moist church
the warm church
the snug church
the cradle of allthatiskind

these butterflies
flutter by
migrating to amphibian grounds
of precious pearl
and nirvana’s lips
wanting to kiss

and this
nomadic tongue
however lyric
longs to speak
no more
which is why
it winds its way down
and back in time
to visit
that to which it owes
life.