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Homo Perfectus Immaculately Conceives Himself
To keep his blessed armor hard he ate
lean meat, cruciferous greens, few
grains. He liked his instants
parceled out in reps and sets, and he was glad,
to dangle like an ape from an iron bar, admiring
his bicep bulge (amen): He worked hard
the slant board, the oblique
twist, and his own form
waxed and polished, his house a bleached vault
where he lit votive candles to the clear
persistence of his little self though no one else
showed up. He liked
the slammed door, the map’s red line, to stomp
a clutch, to clutch the black wheel, to wheel
away in steaming rage.
He was a preacher fond
of Revelation. His truth was slant,
his facts oblique. He sought a righteous girl, articulate,
whose slang he could steal
for his soporific sermons—
a girl all clean and bare in her nethers with mouth
of Cupid’s bow—someone
to dress in white and hold
struggling under water, to warp
the iron of, till she melted. To her
he gave and gave. He gave all
the all he had, which wasn’t much.
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