ORACLE OF A FOUND SHOE

Distract the hysterical metropolis,

urbanite, rinse your gut

with spring water, be lenient know

meaninglessness is what I need.

Arrest your mastering, play

the internal harmonium press a face

you have never seen out of your brain,

you are still a dreaming fetus.

Lie down in the grass,

stand up, hack a cathedral

or an infant’s hand out of a cliff.

Answer the horses when they ask

will you really lose your lover

if you rediscover yourself?

Urbanite, lie down in the grass,

quietly find the god concealed within you,

grasp him and strip him to his empty core,

then go back home, lay on a

meal for no one in particular.

Or stay calm, don’t move,

wait without expectation

until your name has faded away

with all memory of it.