BLACK BOX

Inside a manufactured room, a tiny makeshift man
inscribes the letters of his name inside an artificial
bubble poised to rise above the smog and pop inside
the head of the inscrutable crown prince of a failing
micronation that's suspended on small wings fanning
lilacs and azaleas as they flash along the coast.  It takes
six weeks to dismantle the magnificent river that flows
between the impeccable mountains that quake as he
squints down at the delighted crowd that's packed
into the Jardin Exotique. But will they cross that flimsy
Bridge of Flowers in their endless search for food? The
whole thing costs 10,000 Euros and they'll have to climb
great flights of stairs, their fragile, makeshift bodies fracturing          
with every step. Then they'll have to take the bus to a
disappointing planet orbiting the sad bouquet of their
last fevered perception as it takes the hairpin turn and
disappears into a tunnel manufactured for that purpose
(the tiny man agrees).  New makeshift men adjust
their glasses as they soar back to the peaks, prescription
slips in hand, waving back to former pleasures (Au revoir
Angleterre! Adios Bambino! Sayonara Frau!).
You should at least go shake his hand. The man has gone
to all this trouble.  Meanwhile you've arrived in sneakers,
trailing privilege and dust, your pupils flashing dollar
signs that look like melon seeds to the herds of dwarf
blue sheep that meander through the rubble lapping up
our essences. Well, then, what are we waiting for?
 

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A THEORY OF EVERYTHING

Your heartbeat, for example - the two sides of your body,
several pages of the Koran, the highly saturated purples
that vibrate continuously with a hidden utilitarian
purpose, the number fifty-eight, three handsome men,
the horn of plenty and the five symmetrical knobs
that reinforce the tranquility of the fisherman in his boat.

Continue this process of responding to the ever-evolving design. 
Become the rhythm maker, cutting everyone pieces of cake,
setting an eight-year-old child at the center of the sky,
far above the cups and saucers from which true genius drinks.

It's always the same story with an occasional varied shape. 
There's the twisting and the sorting and the slitting –
easy, yes?  There's also your cousin Mable, who came here
on a whim and is having some difficulty scrambling
over rocks and boats that are so clean and smooth and glossy.

Time to put on our red hats!  Time to slake our thirst
and give the apex one last thrust before becoming kindred
spirits with the out-of-control events your delicate, porcelain
hands seek to embellish with an edge.

If you find this too old fashioned, dip it in 22 karat gold.
The plank that tilts to the left has just now lifted
out of sight.  But our hero points his finger at himself
to show us the way.  The top half of his body is a container
for special mementos: your heartbeat, for example.

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BLACK BOX: This poem began with the makeshift man who, for many drafts, couldn't escape from confinement in his makeshift room.  The poem was static, dull and in danger of being abandoned. I stumbled upon a discussion of Monaco, with its glamorous royals, harrowing Grand Prix circuit and million dollar Mediterranean Views. Suddenly the man shot out of his room, into a series of rococo vistas that opened the poem out into considerations of luxury, fantasy, artifice, pleasure and post-industrial capitalism run amuck.

A THEORY OF EVERYTHING: I was flipping a coffee table book about the history of world art just before I wrote this poem, which accounts for its preoccupation with composition, materials, pattern, design and visual vignettes.  In a highly abstract sense, this turned into a poetic rendition of that book.  Its take on the possibility of totalization is, I hope it's clear, one of bemused disregard