Here is random culture —
two sit outside a cafe
sun-busted open confetti
light upon lilacs. The street curves like a grape.
a tall blonde debutante
sips with a frenchmen. she bleeds out secrets
while he smiles enraptured.
the day smells like wood. it must be the million ants
chomping away near the fire escape.
Any scene is just a phase
the painters sort out.
the blond sips her drink,the foreigner dreams of his grandparents farm
I think. Our complete America
is in addiction to impossible vocabularies.
She wears a deep diamond she twirls back& forth on her finger.
Her neck has one too. It is a cold black pool of whispering
earth. And he wants in it,
but his just standard eyes
his ashy, flitted white hair.
He cannot move, though, which comes with catholic surprise
which does not mystify him — he knows just what this is about.
They see me
and begin their own poems
of fear, spite, and either the complete destruction
or intolerable seduction
of me and the ants.
April [13/15]
ericryangrant.com 