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Roger Pao
A RISEN MARIGOLD FOR THE PROSECUTION
Spatial evidence offers no stance in the corridors
of hearsay.
To misunderstand sergeants in such waysides
presents no foundation for justice,
which is to say if a tomato crucifies itself
in December, no baggage clerk can free the blue kite
from its motives.
Each gesture hums open a cocoon of honeybees.
Stingers
glisten in the jailed sentences
of lilacs. Sewing up a lime, one may mistake
conundrums for steel apertures
not reconciled to their alleged fate of loneliness.
Call such petroleum desires theirs to forgive.
Our love was a moonbeam of statistics,
flowing within a zirconium conviction. But satisfaction
recoils at its own heart, so that stewardesses
who swivel mid-flight
may suddenly recall their infancy in the tampon cockpits
that harbor flames of brass.
How many harmonicas reside in the rapturous
undertaking
of a public library, their hidden stoves
coveting the flatware no one washes? Tomorrow slips
through the courtroom entrance, unpronounced
by channels deemed proper in proportion
to their own enigmas of sight.
In radiance, a lifelong exhibit of raisin pancakes
whistles longingly for placement
beyond careless verdicts, akin to self-denials,
exuded by water fountains. Only through such maneuvers
may children discharge avowals
against the credence of their counsel.
Beneath divested scents of palm trees
resides a heavenly handshake between demagogues –
two golfers who have tried
to bite through the gavel of an hourglass. No
federal judge
may worship lemonade stands under conversion
by a field of renegade kumquats.
Spinach rinds mark the graves of pulp divulged
by the unfinished electrocution
of the beautiful, so novelists may neither forget winter,
nor forge gender into an artifact of words,
for words are the corpses of clams who have ventured too far
into applesauce.
Do not screw out the tongues of witnesses
who once allowed jurors
into their games of hopscotch. A jump rope refuses
to relinquish its gargantuan pearls
through riptides, but neither anchors nor tulips may pull
such consequences to the reef.
NARRATOR
A nest sings
the solo air.
Alive as judgment,
each cry
wears a skirt
to the knee,
born of lying
you have
lacked. Now
a king
may strand
his clock
upon the town.
Waves of
clouds make
circles
to slate
an extant sky.
Bowls of rice
stare over
a cold
orchard, past
the store
without cease.
PANTOUM OF THE MONOLOGUE
While you embalmed sunflowers, I shunned an idiom of snowflakes.
Larks inhabit maple leaf hammocks.
You levered your genuine mandarin oranges into a pyramid.
A gray pebble can costume light, blazing its every incarnate echo.
Larks inhabit maple leaf hammocks.
I concoct illusion into jargon to conceal my cookie tin.
A gray pebble can costume light, blazing its every incarnate echo.
You should have warned me that your sorrow possesses a hobo heart.
I concoct illusion into jargon to conceal my
cookie tin.
The honeydew is an Icelandic moon.
You should have warned me that your sorrow possesses a hobo heart.
My corseted lips want to unbutton your presence.
The honeydew is an Icelandic moon.
You ponder: “I have cross-dressed into the membrane of another
fruit.”
My corseted lips want to unbutton your presence.
I presented the normal drag queen of nerds with a silk kangaroo.
You ponder: “I have cross-dressed into the
membrane of another fruit.”
No one listens to your face.
I presented the normal drag queen of nerds with a silk kangaroo.
You uncurl a brushstroke to save an island from artifice.
No one listens to your face.
My largess would not have sanctified the purpose of atmosphere.
You uncurl a brushstroke to save an island from artifice.
I hovered upon a vagrant dress.
My largess would not have sanctified the purpose
of atmosphere.
Your bamboo birdbath resounds each white mention of water.
I hovered upon a vagrant dress.
Closest to the fragrance of home, you barter your brassiere for a
parasol.
Your bamboo birdbath resounds each white mention
of water.
I replied: “You beheld matter in eight shades of dusk.”
Closest to the fragrance of home, you barter your brassiere for a
parasol.
A rivulet of peacocks awaits autumn.
I replied: “You beheld matter in eight shades of
dusk.”
You levered your genuine mandarin oranges into a pyramid.
A rivulet of peacocks awaits autumn.
While you embalmed sunflowers, I shunned an idiom of snowflakes.
©
Roger Pao 2007
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