Christopher Mulrooney

summons

            the terribilitas of the jangling whirlwind

sassafras of the stern nerves worn-out

wrangling with the toad over jessamine and

horehound in the fingerbowl that mesmerizes

see deeply think it over meditate upon us yow

the captains of the soul lingering thereabouts

on the yellow-chiffoned divans stretching an arm

to serve a shuttlecock or carve an initial

in the shadowed iris of a passing cloud maybe

cauliflower in cream sauce but a far cry from

the standards of the paint industry something so

simple five or six times removed from identity

fruit berries for example as dessert the classic

problem with or without a realistic fly on it

hung in the tower’s mirrored wardrobe by candlelight

                        Frisco

oh don’t call them any such name

it bristles the happy phone

San Berdoo

L.A.

what fresco-painting on the abrupt ceiling

magic town the lower reaches

quiet habitations

nothing so particular

in the long run as this

and the quaint voice raided

these outskirts

that domain

not necessarily an impossibility

in the dream rain

and cold morning fog

faux verities

let the triangle be representative

of the pillar

and the stroke of noon

stand stock still

let the Tory offertory be commensurate

with Pilgrims yet

the fine gills of the smelt

winnow out the foam

and the flying-fish gather

to sample something of the moon

o moon that simple

of the herbalist’s idea-bark

sailing away into Irish seas

at Timbuktu where the library fades

away into forgotten

charms of history

decrees

were the king wise he’d see all stars in rooms

not onstage acting out flamboyant dooms

the linkages of all-empowering thought

shall be the versifactor’s humble ought

we give thanks for whatsoever dowered

the likes of us quite seemly from the showered

like a fractal comet’s tail he goes

infinitely monitored (who knows?)

the empty studio has no lack of interns

and the signal blows which way the wind turns

                       the shoe box poems and all that

it is the record

to be broken

they tell the token

like a neck cord

let his seed faln

gather dews

that we’ve caln

upon our thews

Christopher Mulrooney has written poems and translations in Upstairs at Duroc, Zoland Poetry, Spring and Eclipse, criticism in Parameter , Tadeeb and Small Press Review. Email: christophermulrooney@yahoo.com