The Moustache

who is he that he can see what I cannot

that staring out to sea he comprehends

not stars but burning golden dragons

the sea a blanket of razor blades,

fishing boats wounded bloody geese wearing torches

for helmets while smooth white heads look on unflinching

from a churning shore of black ants

his very face a canvas to his history

 

Black moustache hanging, defying gravity

Twisted wooden cane connected to white knuckles

Staring, staring eyes seeking out sanity to destroy it

With a paint brush as King Phillip’s sword

 

I have no sword, but like everyone else

I know his secret

Pick an axe up from the ground

Weigh the thing upon your palm

Balance wooden handle on callused hand

Breathe deep a moment, pull air to lungs

Eyes shut firmly, then open

 

Strike a mirror; bring point of axe to silent glass

watch the furnace collapse

as simply as

a rock

in dark sea

 

His brain is that glass, jagged edges and warped shapes

twisted yellow vines climbing a crumbling mansion

ants around a rotting carcass, searching for some way in

I have been that ant, stood with both feet upon his tomb

melting eyes and noses watching me from white walls

wondering how to think like this.