Sonnet: Johnny Guernica Smells the Metaphysics
by John Kendall Hawkins
.
Here's the problem. I've come to the conclusion that.
Not everything can be explained. Polymorphous
desires, for instance. Dating doorknobs, then divorce.
You need pigs-in-the-poke. Something to hang a hat.
There are things you see that you wish you hadn't, and
sights unseen, disembodied voices, gods that bark,
foam out galaxies of mad excess. The one spark,
transient as fireflies resisting. Your hand
holds me steady in the night, absent Muse, against
all the failing paradigm shifts, evolution
some molecule's wet dream realized in false time. One
light switch turned on, off. One ardent flame poised and tensed.
Where's the solution in which I learn to suspire
and feel welling up the free form jazz of desire?
