A catman with mushroom cloud hair,
Breaking down the purple electric,
He stands stories above the fray,
Godzilla! oblivious to tiny human dramas below –
This pedestal of fury is his center, gold
Soap box or boom box or the coffin of an ordinary life;
It withstands him, stands for him and sings out his rage for living.
To loose him on the world would be a cruelty,
To let him run free a jeopardy,
But to deny ourselves the chance to see
An irreverent god of rhythmic lust,
That’d be a sin.
VISIONS OF DUST
Inside my eye is the burnt image of a dusty dream floating in the wind;
The specks tear my soul, and drops of it roll down around my smile;
Imagine! Gentle, pounding, shouting feet inside
Wrinkled, rummaged leather shoes laced with careless innocence;
I see dust-faired skin, sweat and joy,
A lust that dances on a sea of dirt and air and music;
It twines around the arc of secrets like David’s joy,
Like a human unworthy of perfection,
Like a prophet proud of their smallness,
Like a Queen who rouses herself in her stately seat in the sky.
I’m too grounded; not like her, in the wind,
I spend too much time on the floor, looking down,
Hit hard by the vague fluttering of an elusive erection;
Somewhere in this wisp of a thing, this fleeting confection of probabilities,
Radiation streams and blasts away that oversexed haze
Leaving a rocky naked soul.
There are no lips to read, faceless as she is;
The eyes gagged, unreadable as stained glass,
But this body is my body and his and hers and ours,
We cheer like fanatics of her defiance;
She rises and the Earth follows,
We linger in the morbidity of our condition,
While the wind catches her threads making banners!
She’s the symbol and the symbolized,
We feed her and we choke on visions of dust and light and taunts;
Her motion goading us in black and white and little fingers like a child.