The Anatomy of a Monument

Mouth full of hornets as teeth, stinger roots,
Wool sock tongue, Concorde nose with culvert dimple,
A few dark landing lights, lips are very bright
And confusing, when open they are a cop’s
Flashing light on an overcast afternoon,
Breasts are like drops of water just before they fall,
Like a run in the paint of an army jeep ready
For sand warfare, or like pudding that’s been
Shaped with a plunger, the same one stuck
To your face for half your life, and moving
Down we have the abdomen, which can be
Disappointing but also calming and inspiring
With it’s double canoe impression on cloth,
And see how it flares like a fuel line? and see
How it portrays human history as a mobile
Of abstract shapes and tufts of cattails stuck to a monument?
And the legs, or course, great waves of them
Rushing upon the hill where the band of hedonists
Were hiding, saying “Some things are not for sailing;
Hand me a machete, Prudence.” and I wonder,
Knock-kneed and with crops of engineered fuzz,
Charged with transcribing notes from a left-handed
Journal of the foot-fetished undertaker
Who could make a crowd laugh right down to their toes,
Will the setting sun in my toenail forget to come around again?