POEM OF THE DAY
SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT
The mist of swastikas has cleared
from the laminated apostrophes, though
the morning was encircled by superhighways.
The half-moon smiles down on the city
like a scimitar, ready to eat lunch.
The three blind lice are more wise
to point out the ellipsis of grace
than Aunt Table and her dry salvages
of proverbs that the ants carry off
to the Myrmidon Gym to clean and jerk.
"All flesh is grass..." quoth these peters.
The trajectory of thumbs in the sacrament
of brilliantine is the martyrs' bequest
to the heirs of Piltdown's ghost.
Let the candy stripe ascend to heaven.
My Rose of Sharon wears an army jacket
in the fatigue of sunsets creaking of love
and I follow the hunchback gleam
into the chalice of a tear, my cathedral
of sanctuary in the cab of the truck.
Walk your calipers across this atlas of prisms:
You can not get the same beatitude
or altitude twice. The apostle queers
our sysygy and azazels our azimuth,
sailing with scapegrace math.
Evidence of history is no J'accuse.
Arboreal clocks tell a moral tale
in swing time, just as the fox
for Aesop swung sour grapes
from the scaffold, croaking Nevermore.
Dana Pattillo
(PoD 6)
7:11:35 AM 
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