Leo Obrst
January 26, 2020 – June 25, 2022
No noumenon, phenomenon, or nomen
and had we a Philomena, no filament
had been pierced but once by anonymous
who scurried with his bloodied tip
to the androgynous forest of sweet
gumball trees, whose spicules littered
the righteous paths all had to walk.
We would ridicule the need for the thing
itself, as if the thing wasn’t fully rigid
in the peculiarities of its explicit existence.
Unlimited lemmings delimit the cliff ends
their brown furled bodies, bloodied
are parentheses, parents of theses
discarded by God in His exposition
of creation: this is it, all of it, all it.
The cut glass of the broken Bud bottle
shoved up into the underside of your jaw
the rippling of the trachea and carotids
promises, premises a liquid conclusion:
amid the laughter, men walk into slaughter.
Draw my own conclusions now, pull
down my pants, expose the fellow
turgidly as independent of the axioms
which can hang in abeyance until
really each of the terms is disambiguated
then eventually conclude: start over.
Fold me into folderol as if an omelet
issuing objections until the fire sears.
