Paradise Poem

Dean Young
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I swear I’ll never drink tequila
until I can fly again.
Problems with the landing gear.
The only smart thing I did
was fill my mouth with crickets
so Duke Sapp could take a picture
of them boomeranging out
but our genius expired there
and he botched the developing
so it was just one blur in another
same as now.
From the practical point of view,
the law of conservation of matter is a joke.
People, prepare for your doom.
We need to get deeper in Dante,
at least to the eagle made of faces
but I’m not ready for the paradise conjecture.
Too much doesn’t fit.
Too much of western civilization is architecture,
bilge, frass,
certain notes only possible
through inhuman squeezing.
I want a phone that rings with a wolf howl.
I want to avoid classical music
bragging about its intelligence,
punk’s redundant suicides.
I want to get as close as possible to rain
without actually being in it,
my umbrella in total collapse,
just a metaphysical argument.
I would rather spend an hour with a dying squirrel
than tour a cathedral
although I like the poor lighting,
the tortured frescos
as if you could be threatened into paradise.
I miss my bicycle.
I tried painting it so ugly no one would steal it.

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