Ode To An Orgone Instructor At Mute Noon

Her hair braids in the hallucinatory hour, 

through night’s numinous negativa, 

the nocturne of Novalis’ flower. Her syllabus

is papyri in a second skin rising in coptic 

numbers in her slumber. There is a new form 

in her stanzaic hair toss, tones of lexical marigold, 

of holofoilhydrangea? Hair a sensory brushfire? 

Amen, announce the birdcall 

of her oratory. In torn patches 

of evening light, she is interpreter

to Plato’s star, scrunchie sewn 

to the circadian coordinates 

of her compact sound mirror. 

Orgone instructor at mute noon,

her mind on the pitching mound, 

baseball’s borderlands her first life. 

in the outfield’s scattered glory,

sky spattered like a fresh Pollock, 

blown like his sifting static sands

in i grovigli dell’anima. Amen, announce 

her birdcall in kairos, white jacket, her 

second skin read casually. I know that here 

is Woman made manifest, marigold 

maeanad, incorporeal; face blazed 

on a C-note, sinking in a sleepy jukebox.

her lucid lyric one of sight through 

one shock’s refractory tempest. 

John Thomas Allen is a 41 year old poet who is interested in experimental poems and particularly speculative ficton and poetry.  He lives in Upstate NY, and writes almost every day. Some things he sits back and laughs at.