Solitary: Andre Malraux's Projected Equilibrium
The palm becomes an interior once a fist is made.
This is conversation for large hunting hounds.
Frisson. Which leads to quoting Doc Holliday,
Benjamin Siegel, and George Patton liberally.
Or the first topless dancer... implanted Carol Doda.
So... I am animal as connoisseur of chewing tobacco,
See's dark chocolate over marzipan, hunting cabins
in remote British Columbia used for playful lust.
Plaster table figurines of Clara Bow as conversation starters:
the finer decorative arts require showmanship... and nudity.
And we mustn't neglect mention of garden fountains
spouting champagne from the nipples of ribald nuns.
Who is to say that this is not the result of testicular
and vaginal requirements... the necessary equilibrium?
Large hunting hounds would rather leap off rocks
onto terrified horseman... than to take part in this.
They would rather the blood of stag or wolf.
At least take me for a three-mile walk,
the near-hound says, even if at the end of a leash.
If there is structure, then, from the hound's angle,
his world is anything but naturally balanced.
Once the fist is opened, we rearrange furniture,
speak in gentle vernacular, allow for the hanging
of our lovers' color-faded family portraits,
and we brush the hound's wiry hair and take him
to the vet's office for biscuits... and vaccinations,
for the natural world wants to beat the crap
out of us with an iron-heavy candelabra.