Friday, April 22, 2011

Mike Krutel "Voyeur Explorer"

Voyeur Explorer 

In the glaring white gap the pilot alone knows:
the naked man in the glass telephone theatre 
the continent clothed in green sweet dress,
knows each place where plutonium resides.

The pilot knows I stay at his place (it’s more artists’ colony
than hospital) and share my room with two other talents
(the beards of the young men wet)

The pilot knows hot black dunes in the air
implicit with stars in active orbit.

The pilot knows how fibrous and incidental it seems, 
knows I’m drunk in my bathrobe—all wreck to rescue. 
The pilot alone knows I have played tennis 
with so many animals, each one
a codex—each letter a cameo appearance, a treaty,
a skull obscenely jewel-toned, slightly thicker than our own.

The pilot knows my eye nearly failed a hundred times
(it metamorphoses into a pig and runs away).

Oh plunge pilot, plunge me
deep in love, you have lived and lived
on every kind of shortage, every cathedral crash
in our hearts, sleep-fallen, sleepily indifferent.

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