Sprezzatura

 
 With beetle-browed irritation
 here we go again:
 Sprezzatura -
 essentially or inessentially
 an identity derived
 for the pop imagination
 of a self-exploding
 book.
 
 Not a prison house
 or a world view,
 this seems a little different,
 not in cognitive taste,
 but in cultural flavor.
 
 The amperage of misunderstanding increases,
 these darkly funny night sweats
 a correction to complacency,
 a strangled, atonal blend of
 billows,
 stutters,
 and cracks -
 a free-wheeling orchestration of
 liquid samba and depraved forro.
 
 Pearls hang down in necklaces,
 islands come round in archipelagos,
 two pupils and one fool go yelping
 with little allegiance to tradition;
 concertina remixes on high wire,
 tightrope de crescendo
 scowling in god's pocket
 beyond basic logistical discussions.
 
 There are no rehearsals.
 
 The language of flowers:
 a trio of violets,
 thistle squiggles,
 overlaid on mulberry
 dead palms and live parakeets,
 angels show up elsewhere,
 no complexity, virtuous intentions,
 maudlin caricatures, or amplitude.
 
 The waggles of focal dystonia:
 my light from one lightbulb,
 I stand illuminated,
 and the bastards tried to stop me.