pozzolana

pozzolana



i'm sure you'll be slow to forget,
my dear, but it was a muddy
air day. the kind of day that, when
we engaged in pleasantries with
shopkeepers, neighbors, and fellow
parkstrollers, instead of saying
'have a nice day,' we all said, 'hot
out there, huh?' i mean it was that
level of heat. a gagger rail
of crushed aleppo capsicum
marinated my sitting-duck
paranasales. budai-paunch-
deep inspiration of ancho-
smoke halabys integrated
the crushed lavender and crystal
moss/galbanum, good for driving.

to be precise, we did venture
in for the peppers, but there are
no accidents. i would have
been more than satisfied with
my first find, magic phials of
dracunculus, killing mice with
a cool green estragole fire.

there was a time in my life when
wanting blowtorched glass meant something
quite different than it does now.
today my indigoed vision
might be clouded by a wet fist
of dark blue crystalline powder
shivering at seven hundred
terahertz nagasaki blast,
but do believe that i could
use a big baby blue bowl on
my quartersawn coffee table.

come now, let's continue to be
up-front and frank with each other.
give me the straight banana-oil
dope. that's right, something non-shrinking,
something keeping reptile wings nice
and stiff until we fall to rest,
remiges aeon-plucked, sleeping
in langenaltheim greensand slate.

i wouldn't pull your leg about
any something so crucial as
kept pink pressed feral flowers. long
after the butterflies have lip-
smackingly devoured the wild
phlox and sailed on to start southern
hemisphere hurricanes, i want
that night-scented bloom to fall out
of ethics, demonstrated so
geometrically, to gloss
and prove. reinvest us with this
reverberating devotion.