THE TEMPLE VEIL
In this prison prism the jizzom jumps. Shrapnel weeps from bruised flesh as tears
of molten blue glass scorch the ghost in the machine. Glowing like sapphires
suspended in raspberry jello, crystalline swastikas slice fate, in a state of grace
equal to the hatstand’s rhumba with Fred Astaire. All his flesh, All his grass,
All his glory, flowers out of him, smoke of his blade, wither of his stalk, to water
the many-seeded fig he blasts. Listen to the spring-crazed magpie’s steamwhistle
and calliope, o son of man, take up your crown of thorns, and walk the talk.
Mount your milk white ass and follow the Grim Reaper’s rainbow scythe as she
goes a-mowing. In the prison of a Mona Lisa smile, your calculus splits the prism,
and sleep with temple harlots.
Dana Pattillo, 1993
