Neither am I satisfied
With colors prime and all the
Others in between, splashed upon
My senses like a roar
In the absence of rushing waters
Paint my canvases with X-rays instead.
Infinity, also, is not enough
For me. An endlessness of prime numbers
Will not balance my meager checkbook.
I yearn for months beyond December.
As a member of a closed set (all
sets being infinite)
I find my cosmos adequate.
The universe that presses like
A skin against me has a scent
That dogs can smell a block away.
That and the rhythmic tapping
Noise I make are only aspects
Of myself, as if at night.
So sell the gods from sidewalks
And tie our astral bodies to the bedpost,
But guard your soul (that fractal thing)
For there are magiks in this world.
And when I go, ah, what a disappearing
Act it will be,
A quantum ‘poof’ from inside
The curtained cabinet.
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