By Thomas Piekarski
PROMPT — I will not rest until ...
Reaching the regal nonesuch came aflutter
swarms of wasps crying out for his mother.
Excitants wafted everywhere to my delight
of course since I wasn’t in a mood to fight.
Rent from a deathly intangible I’d deplore
the dusty elf at leisure upon a golden shore.
He handed over a brain of clay then left me
sitting on a field of pink flame plenty teary.
What meretricious waves swept past I dare
say couldn’t be detected unless the despair
reach some animated nadir beyond my ken
which would render me clueless as to when
repentance for the forgetfulness I admitted
fruitfully emerged on a path since remitted
to the multitude of tides and effervescence
a world wherein any mindful resplendence
be impossible and so decision a new thing
popped into my mind as an innate tinkling.
Then trepidation of a nation fallen so sadly
air impregnated with almost every malady
known before or after man tread our planet
tangled in an atmosphere grinding granite
to build flimsy castles and rational dreams
that would reel off their mystical streams.
You speed demon boiling up the interstate
you’re nothing more than an old reprobate
irrupted by addiction to perpetual blunder
a scant psychism amid tumultuous thunder.
When the king kissed his queen she dipped
her lip onto the cup of sins then he flipped
his wig which was conjoined by a neutrino
ferried forth on anthracite wings incognito.
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. He writes from Sacramento, CA.
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