Thursday, July 19, 2007

The Imperial ‘Stache

I see a man whose mustache is the bigger part of his face

And I feel the century cascade on upon itself.

Even in this bright cadence of light upon the upper leaves

I’m gleaming in the shape of upper things.

One measure is upon the skin of moisture, one of doom

Upon serrated antechambers of the grocery store or cloister.

I see, in limpid television screens, heads of men severed

Into society’s blooming wax of modes indifferent,

Tweed embouchure of governors in kissy-face, patched

Between the seemlier beings of sweat & gas,

The honest clinging lisps of bodily emulcifants which

Cotton up the works & shake the barrel free of sticking things.

One man in the light in a century which continues to be

Bigger than all the imagination of a country made of facial hair.


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