Tangerine Sun by Thomas Piekarski

For André Breton

High upon a cloud that bobs with drones in its hair
a myopic cow visits futuristic castles and museums,
there to entertain the hysterical griffins and hydras
while I in my emerald cape slink down a manhole
into a molten-rock river, then an ocean of mercury. 
Unraveling diversely, a perpetual pterodactyl prays
for the resurrection and ascension of slain gorillas. 
Whoever ignores Iceland will probe a steep chasm
that’s booby-trapped, set for the ultimate sacrifice.
Admittedly the trains and planes and automobiles
you contact on the road to Calais should be ridden
with cheer, as orioles soar like Icarus, never to fail.
Anesthetized, I’m comforted by songs in my head
and find merriment therein despite all of the decay.
Riding on the back of an antelope you’d encounter  
a tangible thought driven into you like a rusty nail.
Lacking any inspiration does solitude invade, like
daisies in a frozen field buried by layers of red ice.
Hail the light strung along a clothesline some poet
dragged through a Sahara of woe and beyond luck.
Maybe doesn’t compute because of acid rain stuck
between this idea and the middle tooth of a reptile.
Mandarin sunset, sliced finger and a managed soul  
like yesterday’s breakfast are today almost pristine.
So now cypress trees and cisterns go wandering off,
which you take for granted but only if love is likely.
Raspberry dessert, I revel in your manifest anarchy.
Rough-hewn breath instant as unearthed arrows you
like a black dove hover over my heart, injecting me
with penicillin, and banana scent that’s oh so sweet.
A plethora of doubt intrudes, muscular and bullying 
whenever I yawn, bored to tears yet worrying about
the apocalypse falling on my head as scorched ash.
Never mind says the trollop scouring craven streets 
where sacrilege and alms greet pilgrims to nirvana.
It’s said in scriptures do unto others what you want.
I wrote that a few days ago while bathing beneath
a purple sky. Rapidly erased from memory parades
a quorum of senators wrapped in gold tunics, to be
saluted by the jackals devout in belief that faith aids
not reverse osmosis, nor includes concrete elements.

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, Poetry Salzburg, South African Literary Journal, Modern Literature, and others.His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, and Aurora California.