you glazed bricks blue
at Ishtar Gate,
deep seas where
lion, bull and dragon dwell

you are featured on
the gold funeral mask of Tut,
adorning his brow line
in deep eternal hues.

your name is summoned
several times
in the Epic of Gilgamesh,
the oldest known piece of literature
known to exist.

your mere
consonance
of L's
and slant
assonances:

eleven tongues licking all my holes.

I write in concrete;
find mystery in the real
and the everyday.

leftover clementine peels
and apple cores
in the kitchen sink garbage disposal:

haven
for the rise
of the lord of the fruit flies.

this, my greatest adversary.

i lay vinegar and wine traps, and,
at various junctures,
lead spray sorties where they congregate
with all-purpose cleaner in hand ---
even swat at them
with my other free hand
like King Kong did helicopters,
whilst holding a screaming kicking Ann Darrow
in her small little nighty,

and i
watch,
haughtily  

as they fall
before mine
victorious feet.

and i beat my chest.

then i suddenly feel horribly conflicted
in the clutches of such a merciless slaughter.

they never
stood
a chance.

i want to enhance my mind
i like to go to that other place
thought patterns of another kind
outer awareness of inner space

i want to slow down my time
slow the motion of the race
leaving what i know behind
inner awareness of outer space

in that little honey hued moment
after helixed bodies
came and went,

where the arc of something sets down
over us
from over there,

with its glow suggesting things
of clenched whitened-knuckle awe,
hugging worried spaces,

i face
myself as
not just watcher -
not just wanderer -
but rushing water wide,
being conveyed

somewhere

into the big run of the space over there
where the strange firebreather awaits
as conjured conjurer
with nestled talking wings that cue us forward,

as we
gyrate
around
in circles; swirling
objects along
the side

for now.