How Idly We Wash Our Hands

Immeasurable delights of turpentine,
phlegm and the
grass beneath an untrained rhinoceros!

How idly we wash our hands knowing
the sludge sticks tightly
to the Valleys of Fingerbottom

between the pillars of creation

and crime.

To see racoons, beavers,
tramps atop tilting tortoises
is enough to make me sob –

tears staining a pink face

for the sake of despair,

for the sake of life!

Capitulate you Catapult!

Send me low below the rhinoceros:
it’s appetite,
it’s capable intestinal engineering
and when you’re done
pick me up and dust me off
if only to send me through heavy air

one more time.

This time dear catapult, the destination
does not lay heavy hands on my heavy minds.
If you wish, send me where you please.