The Incubus

The Incubus

Sieving the richness of his daily reapings
he fastens boa to bicycle wheel, newsprint
to truncheon, handball to garbanzo can,
torn boxers to a California license plate
and with saliva mortar and Pinesol stokes
the color-trance of his junk's congruities,
pure in its impurity, marbled in commercial
afterthought, cast out, repulsed, denied.

Unleashing this beast from studio shadows
onto the gallery's oak-polished floor, he sees
a mutant soul, a gizmo, a thing new-hatched
with styrofoam penis, brown-bag wings,
tinfoil feet, and bottle-green snout, a dragnet
of rat drippings, sees it rise unsigned,
unheralded, an incubus among the philistines,
to belch its presence, to settle scores.