Best Formica Poems
lunatic tile underneath a formica god.
he cracks at the edges.
synthetic delirium..
coptic nerve....
in his head plastic can be holy
.in his head
he bends but never breaks
The Glistening of Formica Memories
Stepping on wet lateral stones,
at the Source of the Bicuspid,
three timeless tree-girls,
dressed in Colorado feathers,
urged on to fly,
as far as the harbinger’s voice,
reverberating from the source
and onward to eternity’s margins,
assume the mad ascendancies
to the highest peak, the farthest city;
their three steeped voices slicing
the formica memories
into shards with bitter fingers.
The glistening call,
of that farthest city,
wallows in the mirage
of seeming imaginations,
of fluid want with foreshadowing
remnants of lateral intricacies,
of standard practices
in the unseen interludes;
why is it when the wind blows
from the source we can listen,
but not hear?
Has memory succumbed
to the vacuum of time and warp?
On which wetted lateral stones
does source-wind lay out
the patterned template?
But now the feathers amerce
the wind’s seasoned harbingers,
plying the stars to find their elàn
amidst the mirages,
urged on to fly, ascending lofty peaks,
beckoned by eternity’s margins,
three arbored fems,
imagination becoming flesh,
stars and stones merging,
as timeless as formica;
their fleshly lateral stones
finding the Source of the Bicuspid.
.... crawl across
the garden path covered with moss.
Creepy-crawly, completely black.
They dash off there and soon are back.
I was intrigued. Then during night,
from a deep sleep I woke in fright,
for I was trapped in dreadful dream,
in which I was Formica queen.
I woke this morn, saw things amiss.
It was my metamorphosis.
Now I've abdomen and thorax
where my head and six legs attach.
I live in a dark earthy mound,
in secret cell, all day confined,
where there it is my task to lay
Formica rufa eggs all day.
On his table of Formica,
A once ardent Christian Micah
Drops reggae from Jamaica;
Newly, Peter Tosh’s great liker
No more Soulless Demons’ Striker:
Paul in Thessalonica…
For ten years in America,
Eyes on the female Hitch hiker,
Mid-course rides turning her liker!
Have you been to Madagascar?
I’d had to and lasted The Scar…”
The First, we’ve heard, shall be The Last:
In his own case, a truth, too fast…
Micah for Marley’s Jamaica.
A note for Micah
Fore, Micah! ~
Table it, too late