The Tale of Lingua Franca and the Sacred Grammars

The way in which the highway curved
Just as it descended at fair speed
-a speed at which one might have a fair
Chance of surviving some calamity-
And the way in which the bridge overhead
Refused to remain perpendicular. 
This sudden traversing of ambulances
On slanted bridges, well
It made me catch my breath
And really breathe it…
And I thought about how I rewrote the 23rd Psalm once
Not so long ago: 

It’s enough to be here, in Calvino’s comic.
Buddha sugar.

Granulated white noise.
Cosmic overflow.

Want nothing, refuse nothing
Keep nothing…I can’t hear you.

Learn Aleph, Lam and Ha.
Swallow God’s ink or Xanax. Or Breathe

I survive the codes of our new rainbow.
Cyanotic.

Your bounty is killing us.
And them. I and thou. It’s one planked table.

We’re spilling and spinning and
we don’t notice and we can’t.

Know enough to be here.
Sweet. Lazy Susan. Stop.

Least I 
Break the grammar sacred, I hold the possibles tight. 
 
 
 

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