poem dedicated to the one phrase I unabashedly deplore....

                 Colloquialism

 

“ I know, right?”                         

 Is what my girlfriend perennially says to me like a prayer bead mantra

Lolling her head side-to-side, windshield wipers on a Renault

 While simultaneously drilling her thumbs

Into the socket of her cell phone, texting, at 30-30

Over chai tea, a Benedictine  round,

insinuating that she knows

Everything about the corpus of Global civilization

whenever she concurs with a previous made statement

Or when I inadvertently

crack a witticism like a  defaulted sneeze.

 

She knows all about the universal patterns of weather

 when I use the word “resplendent,” to  delineate how the horizon

 Feels like pressed spring linen lightly dappled with

raspberry smudges

Trickling in the east accompanied by a drape of a fresh sunshine—

Telling me that she already knows, before stating that she is correct.

 She knows that the coffee tastes better when I use

Our Hamilton beach Coffee maker vs. our Keruig coffee maker

(Both of which look like leftover droids from a failed Lucas side project.)

Or when I tell her how sumptuous the

Vegan  quiche we just  ingested

 looks like something a petting zoo llama regurgitated

After taking a supplementary dietary enema

And I will overtly lie, seemingly embellishing stating

“This is the most healthiest thing that

Has ever been  entered the post-modern architecture of my anatomy,”

 to which she will responds:

“I know, right?” between listless chomps—

 

All the while Looking into the lens of her Hello Kitty pink Iphone.

 

She knows the Greek serial numerals to every sunken

Scroll lost in the library of Alexandria; can recite

Pi up to the 183^rd decimal integer without taking a breath

Backwards, drunk on duty-free Absinthe,

 Before chiseling out her organic shopping list in

Sanskrit, calligraphic font utilizing an

Ostrich quill and ink as a utensil.

Knows when it is apropos to employ the transitive form of the
 interrogative “whom.”

Correcting my grammar even though I am writer

While I Profusely tell that I am linguistically Incorrect

That I am grammatically maladroit, that  I am a failure,

That I am wrong

Which snidely commiserates with replying : “                                “

 

“I know right?”

 She’s mastered Hatha Yoga. Fencing.  Briefly interned with Boeing.

Can tell me the capital and populations density of every country

Casually whistling the national anthem                                    

 during  the opening ceremony of the Olympics

 before each colorful banner appears.

Finding sine cos and tangen in the Euclidean avenue of the Nepali flag.

 

 She configured e=mc 2/cogito ergo sum/ Polonius’s advice to Laertes

  All out of spaghetteos in her high chair using

wadded application for mensa as her diaper

Engendered verifiable replicas of the 7 wonders of the

Ancient world out of Legos and silly putty when she was three

Mastered the art of the Kabala while all of her grade school

contemporaries were listening to Raffi albums

 fucking getting off watching the secret of Nimh.

 She quilted  a chess board out of the periodic table of elements

Made Modular origami out of rehashed, thoroughly edited editions

Encyclopedia britinca, the Oxford English dictionary,

War and Peace, and the Tibetan book of the dead

 

The first time she shaved  the wilted

 follicles off the petals of her vagina

 she used Occam’s Razor in lieu of a bic.

As I retort flippantly stating “Geez that really

Must of have hurt you probably inflicted yourself with a

Rash,” she responds by stating,

“ I know, right??”

 

She can tell you what happens when the DNA of matter

divides itself atomically

Tympanic splurges, thermonuclear fissions

 disintegrating plumes

Tufted in a morel cumulus of mass extinction.

Humanities botched science fair project incinerating

 Homemade jello lava  Infinite Modalities prolegomena,

Tractatus, Gnosticism

Graduate exegesis’s Flotilla of principias and errata

The philosophy of the world to come. 

 

She can describe the nearsighted

mosaic of the sub-atomic kingdom

Blinking, Apiary den of molecules

 Scuba-diving  past the coral reef barrier of microscopic Quarks

String theory resembling cuneiform on unblemished

Operatic sheet music

The strip pole plank scale—  oomphalos elevator button

Going nowhere and everywhere

Through drizzles of consciousness 

And what we have perceives as chapters of

Time is nothing more than thinly veiled

Sheath of saran wrap, Nikola Tesla’s lunch

Where everything is simultaneously occurring

And will re-incarnate again and again ad infinitum.

She masturbates to Jeopardy!!

Hummingbird arpeggio,  two fingers

Bookmarked in the collected sonnets of her loins

Stating the question before the

Premier syllable of the answer is revealed

  Rabelasian blindfold occluding her sight

bathing in a rococo bathtub

  Brandenburg concerto chiming in the background.

--incipient mist of spring.

 

She knows the latitude and longitude of my body

My penis an isochronal lost terra-cotta  sentry man

saluting as we make love

In the bedroom she has had since child hood

 spelling and geography bee trophies adorning

The mantle, gilded mountain ranges spiked  between patches of

Rhodes scholar, Fields medals, Macarthur genius, Pulitzer

Prizes sex,  an exchange of particles and light

Conveying to me with the subtle orchestral

Bob of  her chin that if I fuck her a certain way

She will  say something I have never heard

Her say before in Latin when she cums.

“Alat volat propriss,” Which translates as:

 

(she flies with her own wings)

Stating that it is the motto of the state of Oregon

Something If I was more cognizant and more well read

I would already somehow know…

 

Or when we are making love how gravity

Sometimes reverses itself in dyslexic applause

The fractyl of our limbs iterate in evolutionary flap

 defy the stolid linearity of physics

Ankles and kneecaps parallax constellations

 tight algorithmic recipes, square root of our

buckled thighs  launching like sputnik, skirting around

The circumference of the over head ceiling fan

In frenzied apollonian orchestration before crashing

The quantum concavity of the cosmos

Elucidated in the hush of her eyes.

 

 

 And how afterwards we will be stamping out our post

coital cigarettes in tandem puffs

the prophylactic husk of  wriggled laytex laying

 like a road kill glowworm

at the bottom of the bed and how I would

look into the rosary beads of sweat skiing down

 her forehead as if having some sort of race

and I will tell her, “Baby that that was phucking amazing!”

and she will look back at me with a snug pout and

say, “I know, Right?”  

 

Before  whittling away at nothing

Into the pink hieroglyphics of her cell phone

with the tips of her thumbs.

 

Sometimes after sex I want to tell her how astounded

I am about the  subtle vagaries

of the human experience

Tell her that mankind result of propagating genetic residue;

a wayward strand of coiled DNA

sweat of a species

first reproducing sexually as a severed micro-organism

bacteria split three and a half billion years ago

on a planet that is estimated to be a billion years older than that

a descendant of a rather apish hominid

making it's appearance a little over seven and a half million years ago

being nourished by the nearest solar life generating bulb, the sun,

93 million miles away,

shepherding and shaping the anatomy of our selected

ancestral aunts and uncles into something resembling the current reflection of my own sleep-addled countenance

just over one million years ago

I want to tell her that being born in this time and place

 realizing that you are 1 of out 56, ooo,ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo

 disparate genetic possibilities that you turned out the way you did.

in this time and place. Realizing you are the sole production of a night your parents’ got lucky.

Realizing that if they would have waited a day, and hour, minutes before or nanoseconds later, you would simply not exist at all.

 Before rhetorically asking her this is why we hate thinking that our parents actually "did it"--it's actually an neurological impulse for self-preservation ….and when I ask her she will say

 

“. …. ….      “

Nothing because she is texting while updating her facebook profile about how her inquisitive boyfriend just won’t shut up.

That her boyfriend is ranting on about  a universe flooded with an estimated over 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 different solar orbs

stationed vast distances apart in what us humans

perceive to be the canopy of the night sky from our cosmic nest.

Each star capable sustaining the cultivation of planets harboring bacteria and biology's.

 In a universe comprised of 85 percent dark matter

-a universe where much more is happening behind the stage curtain

than in front of the audience-

-a reality where the unseen, the mystical,

yields more of a compelling force in our day to day

activities and choices then perhaps we can ever possibly discern.

And I will ask he what she thinks and she will say,

 

“shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

 

…the majority of each bartered breath joyfully and naively oblivious to the wonder of creation, to the fact that I exist at all, that I have grown up in a usurped continent that has become the most opulent republic ever constituted under the morning umbrella sky of the planet. where the advances of science and technology has been UNHERALDED in the historical discourse of this planet, on a land boat that has milked dry the udder of natural resources of her planet still while it is in it's maiden years. Thirty years of smiling and blinking and communicating and obeying the laws of physics. Thirty years of love and digestion and wanting. The occasional wished for spurts of compassion. The blissful feeling of joy and longing and oneness.

On a planet where the majority of animals are water creatures and insects. This human being, a corporeal  hyphen etched into a future tomb stone  between a jousting numerical pillars of chronicled years.

This glorified cosmic bacteria is capable of feeling such great things. Such unity. Such compassion. Such pain. Such confusion And ultimately, such love.

I tell her all this while she continually looks down. Texting

Alphabetical acronyms elle-elle-elle, Owe-em-gee, our-oh-eff-elle

Which when pronounced phonetically resemble

The  sound our Neanderthal relatives made

One-hundred thousand years ago

When they wanted to know

Everything about the place they

Found themselves inhabiting

Opening up their lips, roaring an ache of unknowable pain.