Vertigo

We're travelling down a carnival road, are met at intersections by         varying faces: poets as eyes in collapsed black holes, even the         universe as extension of the stellar poet. Then, they are transformed,         become worm-pickers, masons, longshoremen who subsidize their         poetry with the real task at hand: making waste, laying trestles         instead of women to prove a point.         This is necessary. I'm defending it, find it both believable and         interesting. Meanwhile, troubadours and wandering minstrels eke         out a living on storybook memories, join Marco Polo if he ever         lived. Seek out the Great Khan in a box of cookies or within a         magnum of champagne depending on circumstances.         The Grand    Lunar is watching. Her pallor commands true poets to         roll over, gaze at silver buttocks make a commitment to the art         beyond spray painting, ghost watching, navel gazing.         The sky is the final home of the soul, the Sage himself a wanderer         announced.         It was a warm spring evening. Lilac bounded from antler brown         twigs only recently inert. Everything dissolved at once into crying.         The world itself became a tear.