Shaving
A world without graves,
without gravity,
is the fly’s world who lives.
Paused on a fluorescent, he rubs
his pulvilli hands together
in a jittersome meditation
(anxious philosopher!
daydreaming squirrel!)
and I do not know what
he is about
except that he is
at every moment listening
to the inaudible commands.
Messenger of Allah, reincarnated banker,
slave of evolution,
glittery child of an outer space
creator-race who sowed the seeds of flesh
and electricity on earth
(learned men are even now
holding forth for a hairy evolution
while the razor of their Ockham is cutting
it all away
from the mask of God,
and a man with a ratty mustache and a pony tail
is playing the alien’s advocate
here at the Nite Owl,
but he has also told me he is a vampire,
and after inspecting his teeth,
which are in fact rather pointier than mine,
I still did not believe him),
the fly who does not believe
in earth’s weight that will bring me wrinkles,
is banging,
banging and banging…
into Light.
