Nothing Neat!

Graph paper? Premature mache.

Time I found my ground:
made love to it!
Kissed all the grass-blades,
smeared earth in a brown band
hitched to art;

Time I said to guests
watching their watches,
“The bridal kiss will last
past tonight’s rolling sleep,
and tomorrows meetings, so unless
you want to be lip-locked, leave!”

Chaos cannot lie--
it never pins down anything as true
and holds all contradictions beautifully.

Instead of just the wagging
of energetic tongues,
there's also love,
and at the least,
nothing neatly handled.

Nothing neatly handled!
Nothing so neat as a box with no ties,
no chocolates, nor check box, nor coffin.

No, I'm not embarrassed
that wrinkles are the body of my clothes;

Linearity of graph paper?
Premature mache.
Let's wad pulpy gods into dimension,
Glue them substance,
scream them echoes.

Link hands--we'll find the way,
singing.