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Poem

The first cut 
of roses 
are in bloom 
and I will 
see them soon, 
very soon. 

They float 
in a bowl 
of Arctic ice-flow; 
regarded highly 
by the local Wal-Mart 
feng shui 
masters. 

Made to hang and share 
the air 
with antebellum 
paintings 
of imagination mansions; 
holding common court, 
side by side, 
with ancient saints 
of former papal dynasties. 

The sweet scent 
of first bloom perfume, 
exaggerated 
in all three, 
becomes, too soon, 
disguised, sour, funerary 
aromas of terminus musk. 

Can these murdered 
roses face rage 
from the pastel haze 
of entryway 
Nirvana? 

When contradiction 
changes or disintegrates 
thought, 
immutable miracles might 
be imbued beyond the common wrought. 

You attained an interdiction 
of proportional catastrophes 
which indirectly praises 
all the phases 
of old Rome's historic papacies. 

The dead red roses float 
in symbiotic sacrifice 
to long dead religions 
and a joyous old South. 
The new South seduced 
by orgiastic myth, 
reproduced, 
to promote fevered pleasure 
in sycophant seekers 
of false history. 

I found displayed 
all the rages 
of the ages 
on the pages 
in their own time - 
placed by decision 
of revisionist mind. 

Integrity of lust, 
indisputably pure 
until sated 
by objectified cure. 

Then lost again 
in retrieval of memory. 

Now contaminated, fully, 
by casual indoctrination 
causing idiosyncratic 
immolation of synaptic integration. 

A self-destructive, cultural, 
(Homo sapiens specific) 
neurotic guilt is causal. 

Is there somewhere, 
hidden in forbidden, 
abandoned land, 
a gated, grisly city 
sealed and shut 
by rusted nails? 
Standing there 
where citrus fruit rots, 
in the sultry dusk of time - 

Eden - 
forsaken ruination of a city; 
the failed garden of God.

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