Form is an extension of reindeer
It is an eggplant. It is
wide or narrow, a crescendi
of hay & corn & cows. Rapture
is an egg of light gliding over the tongue
in elms of ohms of omen & awe. A form like Marylin

Monroe's skirt in Seven Year Itch, blending
delicacy with stone abandon
with bone. A pleasure
flagrant as rain, obdurate as a bud. We know ourselves
are unknowable
& private as the blood

of a gnu. I broke a tooth
on a piece of popcorn
watching Startrek

& that luminous cloud

of nirvana Whoopi Goldberg intimated
turned out to be some inane Victorian Christmas scene
& not the rush

of paradise crashing through the nerves
I thought of the moment
ammonia & hydrogen chloride come together
filling the whole vessel. The soulfulness of stars
in infinite space is a poignant actuality

of light shining over the heads of the audience
but there are much more

fugitive elements at play
in the life around us & a passion

consequently to hurry. To wiggle
& writhe a Venice of the breath. Slide
ciliates into conjugation, dangle syllables

proportionable as bells. Smear the mind on a glass
of sibilants, the milk
of consciousness on the bones of the everyday


Gloss begins with glass.       But how does one glue
a glint to a glare,  a glimpse to a glint,  bubble epopee

in a Salzburg salon, mount a weather
like requiem

across a Ugandan gorge.  Sift the rhythm

on the back of a leg.  Elicit the steam
of a phonemic magma.  It is a consummate
charm to chisel a tongue
out of the stalactite

of a string

of coincidences.  The colors
are pulled through our eyes
then struggle out of our mouths

as vertebrae.  We call them

cocobolo.  Kwacha.  Hebdomadal
harmonicas.  Lumps

of pontification.  Temperature
is slippery

of glossy calculation.  Elvis Presley in white
   bellbottoms & jacket studded with jewels

on a thermometer in Chehalis
Some Like It Cool.  Sometimes what I want to do

is let the meaning out
of an inner
tube,  a thin

insistent hiss.   Water is a large emotion.  Memory an amenity

& mission.   I like ladders
redolent with rungs. A sentence is a sensation

like rain.  A palaver of stones
in a parabolic brook.   A brick
combined with another brick,  combined
with yet another brick,   builds

a brick balalaika
in a cellar of mood.   If you want to say something

towering & disporportionate you must speak
with a fulcrum of lungs
in a tempest of tongues




John Olson
Two Poems