Paul tethered himself to stone lions.
He was in front of a library.
He was devoted to myth.
He wished to create his own.

Paul pulverized pomegranates
because he liked the sound
of Paul pulverized pomegranates.
That was good enough.

None of the passers-by
confused the pomegranates
for a bomb or any other device
that would go boom!

In fact all the passers-by
believed this was some performance art piece
and a few of them looked for a hat
in which to leave a dollar—there was no hat.

Now that his pomegranates were pulverized
Paul rubbed a thin layer of reddish paste
on the stone lions
until the lions were coated.

Paul lay down on the concrete
and stared at the clouds as they passed overhead.
Birds landed upon the stone lions
and pecked up the crushed pomegranate.

As Paul watched clouds pass by
he occasionally got shit on by birds taking flight.
He pondered what was mythic about this demonstration
tethered to stone lions.

He had no answer.
He heard no answer from the spirit beings in the clouds.
He heard no answer from the Field of Dreams voice.
He decided he should plan better next time.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Some Of The Details I Usually Miss

The memory of you slices
the cucumber in my water glass.

Sweet mother of fiery Amazons!
You shaved your head and tattooed it!

I must be sleeping.
I must be hallucinating from some starchy indigestion.

You are gentle among the animals.
You are restless, cycling through rainbow skin tones.

This must be out of Africa.
Off the Serengeti with lions and elephants.

My focus blurs you into abstract.
How beautiful. How emergent. How lustful.

I want to see rhinos with egrets on their backs.
I want to hear rhinoceros as spoken by Dali in Midnight in Paris.

My memory of you goes to seed
and a wind burst spreads you across the sleeping.

Oh! What has my desire done?
How many ostriches will hatch today?

Oh love! You quartered my cucumber
and remove all the seeds.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney