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 that one’s life hinges
on how pretty you are, how you carry yourself in the heat
of your own complexes: we’re just 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 the teller at the window, a fast
and happy counter of coin, refuse to serve me? It hinges
on how I conduct myself, since having my finger stuck like
a plug in my nostril is considered uncouth, even in the heat
of one’s living room, and especially were I to wear a G-
ish string across my chest, glued at my nipples, the sun

shining where the sun was not meant to shine, a sun
modernized to light up the life of molecules so small and fast
you can’t see them at night. I saw their ugliness once; Gee
I said, you mean we’re nothing but these? What hinges
swing such wormy transparencies, perpetual dogs in heat?
They were ugly-ugly, thoughtless, squiggling snot-like

in their puddle. Doors minus hinges becomes roofs like
a toad in the garden crawls under, like a crab escapes the sun
our learned have been saying will create the kind of heat
that life itself is threatened, and we have to scramble fast
if we want to breathe like our elders did. The future hinges
on our definition of beautiful: how many strands of ge-

nome have met their demise? Adapt, some say: Gee
whizz, look at the new technology! Will it save us? Like
us, love us? I love the tooling, the care to get the hinges
perfect, you know, you can’t even hear them. Let the sun
do whatever it does, some say, nature's work ain't fast,
there’s plenty of time to find a new word for “heat."

When the heat overwhelms, becomes as dizzying as the G-
force of a rolling jet, you and me will have to fast a lot, like
not eat. Tomorrow hinges on us; let's not blame an ugly sun.

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