H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n
THOMAS R. PETERS, Jr.
The nudes are tan & simple all with two hands
Lisa, your terrestrial beauty, minimal, transparent
your lines like moonrays, forgetting tomorrow
the nudes delegating power as naked as trigonometry.
The nudes are errant pinballs on the Cuban Beach
redder than interstellar Pontiacs or chicken wings
the nudes are as enormous as Armadillos
and can barely understand English or anything.
The nudes are pekid and lack understanding of the moon
curved, futile, like rose bushes nearly dying
we met in our subterranean parking garage
or this large tunnel more tragic than yesterday
we are visited page after page by the holy
hands of tomorrow’s nakedness.
My heart, I love your timing like an A bomb
My love, you’re as malarranged as the future
My love, I love your obscure clarity.
[Originally published in NHS 1995, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs95/index.html#11.]