absolute truth

i wish like ketchup for a salty sardine
that  i could spread Pablo Neruda,
as if he were wine infested cheese,
thickly over a dry peppery cracker
then chomp him between my porcelain-capped molars
while he cooed twenty poems of love
deep into the wordless darkness of my throat

i wish like a shriveling lemon for ice cold tea
that i could precipitate Pablo Neruda,
as if he were giant crystal snow flakes,
then shovel his heavy wet clumps into massive piles
while he dyed his whiteness in bloody Stalin
and children built him, 3 balls, a pipe and a black hat

i wish like a graying hare for a gentle young magician
that i could fly Pablo Neruda,
as if he were the first aluminium zeppelin,
high over the stench of industrial New Jersey
then dive from him, marveling as I fell
at his shining body as it soared above me
down into the witlessness of sun and clouds and summer.