My Life With Xochiquetzal of Aconcagua

She was a taupy, waspy, crying

web of Kalenchoes,

those window-thrills that serve to hide

devious necroscopic fare;

or like a moiré soirée squeezed through

an alabaster porte-cochère…

.

I worked a foursome with some stemware,

her granddad oompah’d on the stairs, a

wild Chippewa’s game pourboire

hurtling toward the boxcar fair

with pompadour and drawn sabre

smithed by ten hot Dukhobors.

.

He liked me, tried to set me up

with her, but I deferred, stating that,

“If she liked HIM,

I would forebear.”

A furious furrow crease her brow –

she must have heard…

.

“You stupid dolt! It’s YOU I want!”

She kicked me in the shin (the pain)

which woke me like a Ichthyosaur

tossed in icy lemonade…

.

Once declawed, her filaments

burned less hot; were less unmoored–

I brought her noodled Sukhothai

that soothed her nimbostratii clouds

that gathered in the storms…

.

She tried on Lapis Lazuli

that matched her lightening-piercing eyes

drawn from Delphi’s omphaloi

(it worked with aqua vitea girls,

themselves adorned with mabe pearls).

.

Our wedding was electrifying –

me in Xingtai corduroy,

she in Gonococci

(which I quickly burned and threw away).

.

The bells that rang were hoi polloi,

the kingdom wept, the townsfolk speak

still of this sanctivivic noon –

kind of like the passers-through

pulled by nimble hummingbirds and

all-male troupes of wanderoos.

.

Our life from there grew sweet and sour –

she, the constant gentrifier,

me, the barbarous mollifier

mistakenly quoting Schopenhauer

like over-salted soup.

.

Those were simpler times. It’s true:

though I caught the Aconcagua flu

from a spitting, gibbering llama disrupting

our softened quietude.

.

The days grew calm, we lived our lives –

The incongealable congealed,

the unsublimable sublimed,

then all went well with Xochiquetzal

and her feathered serpent friends,

which suited me just fine.

.

.

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