I THOUGHT MY DOG WAS A UNICORN

Those who have the best excuses in the right places

are the most pardoned in this world.

For instance: the above: I'm under the influence,

and I thought my dog a unicorn with the one ear up.

Oh he is gorgeous, a sleek whiteness itself, a raindew multiprism

of a wing'd thing, slick, swift, with ice-cold never-to-be-touched,

those icy wings!

Turning off the shower, I noticed by the smooth towel

across the skin that the soapy film remains, my being

half-breasted, silk-stomach-caged, slimy, and more curvaceous

in that way.

I almost fell backward but groped the metal lend.

Easily, I might have died.  Above the candle are hills

between which the thingsomething orange

looms warmly to tell me. I had been looking ever since.

It's not a stone poem. Sounds like tone poem as was heard tonight.

See minor. See major.

I can hear the ground squirrels, she whishpered --

like a cheshire cat, she whishpered. Remembering,

I entered the mirror, thinking my head was the biggest part of me.

My crevices are.

i was in a hate hate hate triangle once, which is better

than a love love hate, or hate love hate, or what was that

she said? Something very strange about the triangle, funny even,

like, if someone leaves it remains one in virtue of changing

angles, with each distancing of someone, ever trapped

in the tri-formed infinitude a-called steel geometry.

God how my back and shoulders want to cave out,

to make of me a convex design!

We squander all our violet days contemplating whether to purge

or inhale it all. That is not a pretty picture, with the violets.

But this sunset thing -- the hills are the warm, meaning of course

ambition its own greatest justification; it doesn't like fruition,

the receiver will wilt after his victory, and long for

chaos in toto again.

There is giggling and laughing to unconvey us to the world.

You can't apologize for a twitch, which is what I have.

One minute you're stone cold sober, and the next,

no one will believe you're right-minded. I had that theme once.

One toe on each foot is blue, I keep thinking when i look toward

that white unicorn, or no. It's the lacy white roll of stuff

I think is you, you little bird!

We can always be mistaken, I say, above the air of your bookleafs

over the stallion wind out the window. Little do you know

I'm writing of your shadow and know that in relation to nothing

you weren't anywhere with the influence endearing you

to some specious tread.

Things were coming clearer under the stream of warm water;

I'll go back for more, see if i can drown in the incensed dizziness

of happenstance. I didn't think you could get bombarded out

by the good, such as fruit and mothers' milk.

Get your mouth out of my light! Hunger, lust, and everything else,

I concluded, are nothing but mesmerized spasming

in the joints and limbs.

“Amateur,” that's from amo, he kindled the air around our figures.

I said "maybe" though I didn't hear a question.

I was always maybe.  How many nights have collapsed, slapsed?

I walk like you've been playing your pipe for four straight days

and can hear the rusty echo beckon.

When Was What? Maybe they'd anthologize the tricryptic phrase.

It seems time has become stretchy stuff where some taffy roads

disappear because of the pull at either end; we can follow

other roads...what's the difference in forming the world

from together or from apart, of more importance is this

than which puppy tails go up, and which down?

Notice which syllables are sepereaded outedout.

Sensory perceptions begin on october 17. I thought you meant

the approaching one, the crimson forever future

Octoberay day of 17, but you meant last. You took notes.

I record them, but only on paper.

if I ever blare into the prindlechasm of your devout

ebony towers you will not query into my souls

as to their cornonas of breeliance.

There is none there, but the fierce white satin dream

that made me sure her sensitivity

spewed its own commemoration.

It was then I felt the wrinkles of sequins

folded in black skew lines,

all the dark tangled underthinkings,

and decided never to court

the parallax again and be identified by such.

I shy by the wry in the rye to bellyache the burly ball

of the cobbled worldly well... it's just as will.

Copywrong Julianza Shavin 1973 rev. 2008