It's to get the gods back
Is the purpose of poetry
The translator said, as she languished
Over limonera rendered into English.
"I can't get a Camaro into a pre-great war poem
Without attracting the attention of the poetry gestapo."
The fox in me hides in the camouflage
Where I'm always welcomed, for everyone
Wants everything known about themselves
As long as the observer is transparent
Like a cartoon ghost or a whippoorwill,
Forever thought of fondly, but never seen,
Never really.
The king as always doesn't care.
His is the reality we begrudge respect for
Although he is almost always never real
At all. He is so far up the mountain now
Above the duero, where the leathered rich go
And the old Rich Jews, the higher oblivion
Where what mattered was theirs, but it fell
Through the crack, and they're happy they are not
Now below ruthlessly suppressing their empathy
For the sake of the Grail!
Lift the cup
Of fresh-squeezed lemonade with lavender in it.
My yard is my Earth. My world is my following.
Each glance at me is a universe entire.
That's why it pleases me, what I do,
Setting up the hot tub for the summer,
Letting the wind dictate the mix of chemicals
While I spend my leisure deep in prayer
For the dankest moonlight jams.