Solidities

It has bored a hole in my head
such that Adon Olam won’t reach
and no one’s left a Lonely Planet

What to make of sex and genre
all inflections old and new
with couch and time extruded too

You’re far too gentle for a golem
hums the Christ on Ravi Shankar beats
be orderly and kind intones the shoe

There’s status, rods, and floral holes
and then there’s groundless whirring ground
in which I trust as “Elohim” or not-a-sound

I’m body-bound, I’m sane, I’m sound
and redolent of ecstasies I’ve spun
and fractal with the histories I’ve smoked.

Nepalese tapestries hung about the mind;
I promise to be kind.

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