ISAAC IS NOT ICARUS
In the end, not even
the curtains or the
virgin could keep
Isaac from spreading
his full span.
He’d be making that
flight across the Atlantic,
leaving his mother’s
address in Denia
as a contact point.
Flying low, pumping
his lungs full of salty air.
IN THE HALL OF THE MOUNTAIN KING, OPUS 46
Had me the balls to shake ruckus
after mellifluous sweaty loving,
wreck daddy’s Caddy and leave.
I’ll find Inachus of Argos and rifle
his daughter out of her virginity:
the hundred eyes of the beast Argus
attest a crescendo that fizzles out
and sucks up like an old two-liter
bottle of cola way back in Winn Dixie
shelves; back in the mind of the one
I should’ve taken. When the behemoth
is slain, it’s not his eyes that adorn
the peacock’s tail, but lovely Io.
I am Panoptes Argus who ebbed asleep.
My tears break the surface of flute
holes. When I’m told to leave, I go.
