turfgrip

Beneath my chair I reach for

the handlebar of eternity

cold, cylindrical, translucent, but

through it coursing lime

relish and tang static,

harboring minuscule emerald explosions

bouncing, pulsing, like restless

mossladen turnstile motion

teetering time wise, tear wise

consuming itself to continue spinning like

puncturing earth with a stick and moving circular.

This is my home and I control the temperature.

When pompous, I claim impressionist portraiture is in it,

of it, washing someplace in a leprachaunic pool of green.

When pop’list I say pretty and grip tighter.

And the deity that washes and taps my steel bar

confides that washing beside - “the leprechaun you called it?” -

are the cosmic garments that pick us from the drawer each morning.

They do not scrape,

burdenless, they wade

in the pool off the coast of the viridescent grip to floor to flash grenade

palm leaf firework display, poomf poomf poomfing through this see through stick

as I remove my hands from the green.