by Joseph Milford
“Are we there yet?”
The impetuousness of youth. Leonardo himself couldn’t design toys to satiate you.
And prodigy could put allspace in a notshall. This poor Hamlet would now be counted
as a king of infinite space. Yet, still, he gets antsy
in the backseat of an uncle’s station-wagon.
The merchants are the same as the cannibals in their desire.,
but procurement involves so many flesh-transactions.
It enters the right auricle, slinks into the left auricle, exits into the right ventricle,
leaves once more through the left auricle and into the blood continuously.
Many a furtive glance has destroyed an empire; many a veil fallen has inspired one.
Secret rivers, tunnels, and gates. The lovemaking of continents.
Counting the lines in the road with the abacus.
Cussing potholes and armadillo crossings. Theoretical diligence and armors.
Sunflares, geysers, whalespouts, rains of ash, brocades of light, fire from the eyes and words,
the black swords and white wings afluttering forever.
These lands are irrigated with our sweat.
Blood rains under the earth’s crust. Magma through the bones.
Just by standing in a field, a man plants seeds. The root of what he does resides in the angel
and the demon of him. A farmer knows that his place is between.
Every crop is a welcomed requiem.
Mandrakes and mandarins galore.
We move to the spanse of prickly-pear.
All is a smorgasbord of noir under a constant star.
We make relish out of relishing it. Chop up all into art.
I refuse to wait in the sauna any longer. I’m strong as a winged lizard
riding a quetzal.
Our lives are the drivings to constantly relocating coronations. We’ve exhausted every
mysticism. The soul must stand alone in a crowd of itself.
Our hearts are sportscars that none of us can afford.
The soul knows what it does not;
what the soul is is its own personal
knot of not-gnosis.
In a forest a unicorn versus a buck
is nothing to bet on.
The clashing of antlers, the clang of one-ness.
As my eyes become pale and tired before the wheel. I’ve always been the center
of wheels. Who has met if not through me?
Tribes are smaller than we breed. Living under helicopters and above cops.
Regiments of age, optimistic cancers, learning to make exotic parchments.
I am Milord, a dying name. Horsepower and longing. Dazzling
love and fear and guitar strings for arteries. Taut
steel-belts for rhythms. Syllogisms of interstates confused
and frustrated gas-tank muses. Sappho and her Harley.
When the mandala is the break of a sunset in your firstborn’s eyes
and perfectly aligned with the heart within
then I’ll know that this telegram has reached its home
as a final divine rest of wings.
There will be one ominous cloud, and only one, and
you will call it SKY. For lack of a better world. And someone’s namesake.
one letter per event per millennia.
One particular sky per person, please.
Said the consciousness.
The rings of Saturn will change someday. And I return with quills and feathers
Other poems by Joseph Milford in ActionYes #2:
I I let the reins go
On the edge of the initiate’s fingernail lies the secret longitude, the lost Parallel
my first semester
a way of getting there