Soap Logic


The father of all men
Is a filthy dumb dumb ape
Who could hardly hold
A rock to break
A mammoth’s skull
Into soup bowls
Much less fathom airplanes
With small screens
Imbedded in the seat
Where a traveler might
Swipe a finger
Through different small
Worlds & watch men
Pretend to be other
Men badly. i haven’t
Bathed in days. i’m wearing
A stranger’s dress & nails
Heading in the direction
Of another funeral. 
The woman who’s paid
To fly & smile pushes
Her drink-cart forever
Down the aisle. to my left
Farm land sprints past
Below in its predictable
Geometry, to my right
A man i can’t help
But press my thigh against,
He doesn’t seem to mind
Outside the turbulence. 
Seems unlikely anyone
In my blood line
Would have imagined me. 
Little nasty half-queen
Painted for the evening
Caught somewhere
Between disinterest
& a great great absence.
The father of me
Isn’t an ape, hardly
Homo at all. he is a blade
You must clean
Each evening or else  
He rusts completely shut.