American Eye

I do not believe I will go dancing
around a table of solemn objects
or porcelain virtures, nor my
headdress be a plastic garland bursting
from the stems plastic fruits and leaves,
my unfixed eye rolling, stiff with arsenic,
my jacket or vest full of nickel,
transmitting lavishly my vision,
encompassing the obvious malstrom,
with obvious me at the astute epicenter,
tied to the masts of a ancient galley,
a splintered one I never helped design,
or lent a hand to fasten its sail,
nor have ever dropped its anchor.

I could assume it was circumstance,
an expert builder and destoyer I could blame,
inducing my feet to stomp about.
I gleefully leaped into its working heart,
into an abyss, heaven, or another,
whatever unknown it was.
It was circumstance most likely,
leaving my center perpetual,
my third eye somehow sidelined,
grievances against the transparent,
my American eye, women and men,
gods, gel capped, clasped with fear
that losing was a disaster.