Thursday, September 5, 2019

Beautiful Sunshine

My posture they say is like Cagney’s in White Heat,
and I have a tendency to explain it all like Edward G
Robinson, or any schmuck from New York, smooth, fast
as a missed deadline; someone even thinks I look like
Clint, when he squints to cut the glare of Tuscany’s sun,
hand on his gun, working a cigar between the hinges

of his mouth. It’s easy to imagine one’s life hinges
on how pretty you are, how you carry yourself in the heat
of your own complexes: like dumb moths to the sun
no bigger than a nitelite. If I go to the bank in my G-
string, will the security guard reach for his pistol like
you see cops do when they get an inkling things are fast

coming to a head? Will she at the teller window, a fast
and happy counter of coin, refuse to serve me? It hinges
on how I conduct myself, since having fingers stuck like
plugs in my nose would be uncouth, even in the heat
of one’s living room, and especially were I to wear a G-
Man's holster across my chest, gun on my nipple, sun

shining where the sun was meant to shine, a new sun
to light up the life of molecules so small and fast
you can’t see them at night. I saw their ugliness; Gee,
I said, you mean we’re nothing but these? What hinges
swing us in time with such wormnesses in heat?
They squiggled, thoughtless, fevering snot-like

in their puddle. Doors unhinged become roofs like
toads in the garden crawl under, escape the hot sun
our learned say will create the kind of lethal heat
that all life is threatened, and we have to scramble fast
if we want to breathe like our forebears did. It hinges
on our definition of beautiful: how many strands of ge-

nome have met their demise? Adapt, some say: G
for Garden; a new technology! Will it save us? Like
us, love us? I love the tooling that creates hinges
so perfect, you know, they make no sound. Let the sun
do what it does! Some say "nature's work ain't fast,
we got time to think of a better word than “heat."

If the heat overwhelms, gets as dizzying as the G-
force of rolling jets, we'll just have to fast a lot, like
not eat. It all hinges on us; let's not blame an ugly sun.

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