Poem Number Three Hundred and Eighty-Two
by Philip Kobylarz
Between a Dutchman and the Devil who can smoke the most?
Only no one knows and they are selling nothing in finely
Crafted boxes, some of needle, some of woven, hand-blown
Glass, some of blades of stone (no, not obsidian), some
Of microscopic cardboard boxes stacked together to form
One big box– the one you’re supposed to think outside
If everything weren’t a box, there would be no seas.
Davy Jones’ locker, our ultimate destination, some call it
Space, an abstraction to end all abstraction. Gardens of
Sand with wind carved Ozymandiuses swept across Mar’s
horizon which Martians, by the way, see as turquoise Indian
bracelets. Or at least a cream of wine. They are Buddhas
who never. Stay hungry.
In listening, listening close,
They’ll try to seduce the next fool, spiders.
A fly. A gnat. A wallpaper of rococo or the laser reflection
Of the eyes of those of us who do entertain souls. We’re
all that and a bag of chips, girl. And she’s a Georgia peach
ready for the halv-
The thesis here folks is that you’re closest to the world
the further from it you go. Try first the sewers of Paris or
catacombs, oh about anywhere, maybe a pooled cave in
mesoamerica, late Toltec, bones of jaguars and human
bones of humans and jaguars, humans and jaguars,