PROTOCOL OF A NEW AESTHETIC

by Howie Good

Take a fur-lined cup,
crack one blue eye like an egg into it,
the wet snores of philosophy,

until a brown haze envelops everything
you see (by you, I mean me),

closets of children’s clothes,
an old-fashioned summer garden,

then just when the panic picks up speed,
the air convulsing for your pleasure,

reverse the words inscribed on the heart
of the sailor crucified in the rigging,

and there’ll be shadows like daggers,
birds eaten by the sky,
big flames in lieu of flowers.