Garrett Brunker
Response
A FEW AT HARRINGTONS
Tyson West
I could never count
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The number of times my old lady
Threw me out of the house
Let alone ever pull
A passing grade in algebra
But somehow someway I intuitively grasp that sweet spot
The pi of harmony
That rolls into the ouroborus of ideas
The point at which the transcendental 3.14159 etc. beers with the boys
Slides up the mucoidal parabola to The Meaning –
That mirror ball whose circumference
We are so close to computing
I mean we are right there
At the confluence of magic words
That define, refine, and reorder
The irrationality of birth and love and death
In the sweet bitter bubbles of malty froth
Captured in tendrils of blue smoke.
When suddenly we fall off that flickering point
With Sal on the floor
And the nagging something
The narrow fellow in the grass
In neaderthal nearness to
The great white whale.
You know the something in the nothing
The drool of salvation
That lurks around the can
Then into the window
We opened to let out the smell of Luckies and Coors and garlic
No matter how hard we try to sharpen
The horns of the bull
Another random number
Falls into place
So much so that the falling itself
Gets eternally closer but never nearer
To alter the constant growing ever longer
But staying the same.
May, 2014
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