Excursion (poem)

                       1

Spike wore his suit close to the vest
and straightjacketed his infinite blue yearn.
What could he know
of a vast space beyond ephemeric indigo?
He like to drink his words neat, most best
unheard in the tavern.

Not of course
unplease to cower in comfortable jukebox
blast, not he--
better the swiveled eye, none any worse
for a bimbette surveyed at two o'clock:
O desire, you opening sea.

At last, perhaps the one utter to stoke
up hearth's fire, to place sounding stroke
to purring pulse.
A glamoring touch should whisper fair quietly.
Tranced out of the tumult
babbling, we hear sang multitudinous the light.

Spike squared sails of his wandering piece and cast
off for the shimmering sounds of this open piazza.


                       2

Roiled upon spumes dark and inchoate,
the memoried past, and flotsam of future rue
sticks crosswise in throat
that will warble no stale wedding tune,
can croak, in fact, only
--Is you is, or is you ain't my baby.

Spike would know hisself better, though way too
late for any mirrored, esoteric glancing
to pluck hapless Eros'
shaft from an unstrung bow, too late to dance
naked before the unrelenting blue
eye of some Isis.

--Is you is, or is you ain't my baby.
Blind spiked quest into dark wood dreamed
where anything, nothing
do unhappen everytime, where spumed stream
plunges underground, the plumed spray
babeling, babbling.