poem insists on wearing the clothes mother comet Goddess made for us to celebrate Panspermia Eve

Heiroglyphical Representation of Jupiter or Pan from Athanasius Kircher's Œdipus Ægyptiacus.

what do you mean 
I have gone off the deep end 
well sir you seem to have taken 
to king-ing yourself a courtly idiot 
and quite frankly darling 
it does suit you 
but rather than participate 
in your coronation 
and its resultant world at large 
I would rather have you slave away 
inside my domed biospheres 

the ants have been building 
these arks for millennia now 
in order to save all the botanical species 
from any extinction 
due to loss
of the magnetosphere 
when the universe's first 
black dwarf with its snow white in tow 
follows a mother comet on home 
coming back to visit her brood 
here where we are 
poem and I 
practicing 
the lullabies 
we children 
sing to the ancients 

(on top of any mountain is a song the wind teaches us)

she is why poem exists 
be her young or older 
married or never with 
a single someone else 
children or not apron strung 
she is ours 
our words 
mine and poem's
our bliss 
how we follow 
kiss nectar 
one moment 
to the next 

the best laid plans
of humans can be bricks 
and mortar, though 
the houses we 
feel most at home in
are always made of cards 
and meant to be set on fire 
eventually 

to get straw to be gold 
Rumpelstiltskin said to us once 
you have the right colored glass windows 
to see infinity through the lies that keep you 
grounded and adhered to tether-ball courts 
of cinema escape 

modernity's lamination 
captures life in lathed once ago(s) 
old tourist stops 
and malt shops 
in the post war 
automobile 
culture America 
we are obsessed  
with meaning 
we are and were 
and always wanted 
to be these 
two kids 
spun round 
maypoles 
in a garden 

(the tailor struck nine)

sewn on 
we soon 
figured figures 
letters symbols 
counting numbers 
marking times 
that the light 
we wanted 
to be held by 
itself was born 
in sea caves 
like we always 
thought we were 

sometimes we just want to wither away and become the dust 
again wind and seed let fates decide where we lie and bleed 

do we wear our selves thin meniscus driven  
but then when does mother comet return 
and do we know the nautilus shape 
of heavens was exhaling invertebrates 
and the spines of told tales 

an ever open expanse 
of space and time 
the old dowry cloth we kept 
for life's emergencies 
was folded corner to corner 
neatly inside a cedar chest 
at the top of the attic stairs 
we knew the past 
and the future 
somehow belonged 
atop each other 
right there where 
it was presented 
leeward-ly leaning 
drift netting post-Descartes 
Tom Robbins' Pan 
his gallant dancing electricity 
and subtle musk carrying 
all our mother May eyes 
to any other third stone 
from the Sun we could find 

EJR ©