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On First Looking into Popōcatepētl
Poetry:
“The movements of some more little red birds in the garden, like animated rosebuds, appeared unbearably jittery and thievish. It was as though the creatures were attached by sensitive wires to his nerves.”
― Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano
The extenuation of time into rhyme
Devil’s in the detail. In time:
A confusion of contusion, a microbial illusion,
Stretches out of meaning so that:
Time rears its ugly head of dreaming steam
Screams: ‘All that is, is not!’
A hot crying ensues, tears shift thru gears
Moods for the muse, fiery, sulphurous news
Of an Aztec’s-under-this-any-old-active — volcano
A cacophony of rumbling of stars, of magma,
Earth’s uncertain stuttering shifting of an undiagnosed
Conceit: reckoning everything under heaven
Is calculable, neat, stable, discrete. Mescaline begs
To differ. We must suffer the agonies
Of all that explosions do to human bodies
Let’s throw off the mantle of disguise
Open our red-rimmed eyes
To all the frail beauties of this world.
