So Dean and I challenged each other
to read our weirdest poems tonight.
Here's mine.
It's a sestina.
It's called "My Darling, My Orangutan."
"What I enjoy so much and will miss most when I die
is the orange.
Its citrusy smell and the way the golden juice
sprays when you peel away the Victorian exterior revealing
the warmth of a brain inside.
Lovely fruit of light, the pollen air
called it in windows.
A poem of deep and marvelous beauty,
but also of disjunction and T-E-A-R-S as in those
of a clown, but also those of ripping paper.
The tears of anything leaking both out of itself
and into the startling image of an orangutan,
an unpredictable creature of serious power
and seemingly deep sadness.
Perhaps due to its being so far removed
from sprays of oceans and scenes of the Earth.
My poor dear orangutan, what lighthouse
will guide you to your piece at the maze like hotel exterior.
An idyllic vacation spot for you and your playful exterior
relax in an atmosphere of plush public sculpture and truly
terrifying goodbyes.
Everyone dies eventually, so why not
make it as light hearted and sexy as possible,
reads the brochure.
Decorated gaily in orange and gold freckles,
frolic in sprays, the brochure continues,
of our state of the art sprinklers.
Two shows nightly and cocktails are free.
How deep is your love, my orangutan darling?
I have a secret so horrible and deep
I don't think you'll ever forgive me.
I'm not what I appear to be.
This latex exterior is merely a costume, a mask,
and at dinner when the saliva sprays ridiculously out
of my mouth it isn't passion talking but a clogged tear duct
opening at the back of my throat.
My Darling, my orange blossom, I am full to the top of darkness.
Even X-rays can't shed light on the wretchedness inside me,
not even the sunlight of Apollo can penetrate this tale.
I am first, and I can't tell you how deeply sorry
I am, which is why you must go away from me
and bask among the orange scented people
of the heavenly, glamorous, and lovely lake exterior.
There you and a friend will be provided for in style
while you tear up the dance floor to the syrup of Abba.
It's true, the perfume sprays have damaged my nostrils,
and now only prescription nasal spray
and industrial-strength air brushes
keep me breathing and high in the half light glowing.
If I could manage my fears I would tear myself in half.
I would end this meditation on the deep dark vast,
and allow you the opportunity to cut through this exterior
muddle, this noise in the treetops,
leathery as an orange.
But alas, I am nothing without the orange of you spraying,
and though I love your gruff exterior
and overwhelming like nothing can save me
from the depths of this life.
Oh, lovely, the loveless tearing."