Memory, that Gulfy Sea

“O Duty,

Why hast thou not the visage of a sweetie or a cutie?”

—Ogden Nash

Flog your vermilion

blood, your cold bones streamed

in the copy shop of the mind, cracked cranium, skull exposing

iridescent entrails—

innards of the spirit,

a rainbow of motley and multicolored birds of the soul preening at all azimuths, unashamed of themselves, conscience, lime-feathered; common sense, porphyry, streaked with white crystal; lust, maybe rose madder . . .

but black as midnight, memory—

that gulfy sea.

Note:

An earlier version of this poem—here mercifully abbreviated—appeared in Sparks of Calliope in November 2021 under the title “Mnēmosynē.”

Thursday, October 23, 2025