2001

What hope is twisted around pinky finger
to remember the little deaths of peace?
What long division calculated by stars,
what remainders lost to their cold dust?

We are the dread monkeys of reason,
the cold souls dancing round the obelisk
for want of evolution and relief
from begging the moon her tides

There are no questions, only answers
humbled by our grasshopper tongues
the flight of our bumblebee thoughts
and the acid etchings of time tattooing our breasts

With celtic knots and roman yarns
chariots that might carry us away to another
split infinity. There are no answers
only questions enjambed into our

sex rising to the occassion of another
happy doom.This is paradox you tell
me -- but I know better. I know the art
of seduction and picking lice.