LET’S BUNGLE

LET’S BUNGLE
by Randall Nicholas

On the haunches of prevarication
spring for what happens
in this morsel of a jungle we call home,
no light but instinct
under its shrugging canopy
a little brownnosing won’t help
bristle our backsides,
calculate by our guts’ galaxy
the other’s countermoves
amongst the shoots and high rises,
creepers and undergrounds
yet snared by our conscience
harping for a faceoff
we try to dissemble in shadow
so blatant to the flipside predator
luckless though we may be
to acknowledge our
kill-triggering hunger
cutting and pasting for the best approach
while scrambling to subvert
the overextended blue lines,
terrific as that feels
on both your and my end,
what a waste of a handshake,
upcurl of the mouth,
a word embodying gratification
in its crosshairs,
whereas we go on like this
bobbing and weaving,
sucking and regurgitating,
reconfiguring the constellations
apropos the Kama Sutra
when we could, as they say,
make love out of coffee,
newspaper, a birdfeeder
to the point
I could pick a speck
out of the corner of  your eye,
hold it up to the obscured light,
and call it a masterpiece
of repressed intimacy
worthy of a zoo
stampeding to get out of its cages,
tear down its cities,
and refoliate to knuckle under
for another spring.