Gigantic

Gigantic

It is the time of the giants.
The body glacial tremor hot
Buckles.
Heads scrape across the upper atmosphere--burning up like giant meteors.
It is the time of the giants.
The grand monuments move sprightly on little cat feet
Unheard, unseen, unreliable.
The skyline remains unchanged,
Doesn’t it?
The giants sway and sigh
And moan great pained moans.
They look upon the landscape, fallen redwood-tall.
They cross their arms in mock disapproval
And weep like--not like willows--but like the office ficus,
Next to the office copier that spits out memo after memo on white bond paper,
Whose potting soil is littered with half-smoked cigarettes,
Secretly smoked
During unnecessary trips to the fax machine (everyone knows no one uses the fax machine anymore)
And, “God,” you pray, “let someone grope me today, just so I can feel human contact of fingers against body and body against body,”
“Just cords of wood stacked by the fireplace--please throw me on the fire just so I can feel warm again…”

It is the time of the giants,
The clock barrels forward,
Mowing down blades of grass, grand canyon tall,
Where even the smallest man wears cowboy boots and twenty-gallon hats.
It is the time of the giants
And they have swatted down planes and swallowed the moon.
They’ve shot rockets from their nostrils--rockets that have traveled to the far ends of the universe
That have sent back postcards from the bang you felt inside…
The interior of you--an expanding spiral arm galaxy--a gut-shot--a gun blast gaping wound
Gaseous, violent, ulcerous--acid reflux massive--super gigantic…

It is the time of the giants and I fit inside the small of your mouth.

RJS
122005