Martha
Stewart Living
like
a kettle aboil I patch my frauducide
with
cantankerous souls
those
dolls of foregone foregoing
and
I call to Martha Stewart
your
younger self is a drifting image,
your
salsa recipe so over garlic ed
as
to blowtorch the innocent bystander
within
hot pepper moon blooms
on the faces of crashed chips
tortilla
ed with fumes of wonderment
I
look into the too-many pasts to see my future
--that
blind pursuit with no foreseeable outcome
that
bores into the fabric of being
and
the perceptions we live for; what else is there?
green
galaxy herb stems who splay their leaves brightly
are
star shapes set against the dirt horizon globes of
green
fallacy ideas collapsing, slow and listless
and
a summer day, 85 degrees, hot sun, certain birds
uncertain
in trees and the goldfinch on the spreading
sunflower
seed head swaying in a brief patch of breeze
I
look into eternity at the gallop and fallout of insects
I
look into her “Entertaining” book for clues
how
to share flashes of enlightenment equally
so
party goers drip with fantasy and bewilderment
as
they sip their elaborately concocted frozen drinks
what
descriptions of truth will flow from her leisure catalog
and
into the sense screen of the assembled craving relief
beauty-seekers
feeling for the mirror-self on the patio
and
finding the reflection of something less
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