So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish

If a crystal pyramid sits

where his head should be,

do not resist bathing first

in the holy disco

and ecstatic beat

of your forgotten longings.

Binge on Neptune's fizzy spring,

wear pink foam like jewelry

until you are pruny and molten.

  .

Next find the room that transfigures

one hundred wild glances

into matchsticks.

In the cavern below the lumbar curve,

ignite the cold, forgotten oil,

feed it to inferno, taste

every morsel dripping from

that silver tongue

until you are no longer starving.

  .

And if the parade of fathers and kings

begin their proud, backwards march,

and plastic beads

arc out of the crowd and into

your hands, and the cannon slurps

confetti, condensing, from the air,

and the brass line inhales,

know this—it is no accident.

  .

Notice the hum in your own

purring throat, just as the clockwise turn

begins again, and the prism confers

an essential obsidian indifference.

Withdraw the wavelengths—you must!—

from the memory of the sun,

his refractory gaze

(and yours).

  .

Go ahead.

  .

Ebb into the melting mirage.

Drink the aching middle

through uncorked tips

of your fingers and toes,

hold your own waist and waltz

with each emergent shadow,

scream at clouds,

loose ribbons of your blood

into the cruel, wending river

and say thanks

as the colors

become you.