A doctor once asked me why
stones should not be thrown
in houses made of glass.
They should, I replied
I said, they should
How else would one get out?
(Or think of Alice
at the core of mirrored shingles—
mind-menagerie, jungle of fragmented self—
ogling or smeared leers and everywhere eyes
with nothing to wipe away
distortions, but bags
and bags of broken stones.)
But he was not amused
and scribbled and smiled and conjectured
with his eyebrows. I glared
through raging eyes glazed with fear
and darkness all the way through
the Rorschach blots
building beaming rainbows to castles
and castles of refracted logic.
(Tears are constructed of such rainbows
and rainbows of such glass.)
Fingers pressed to the window pane
with the world whirring past
I wept cold as any stone trembling
all the way to the facility.
Picture time gone
and a world turned to glass.
Here, a glass man holds a white glass
handkerchief to his red glass nose
in a city park where the brown glass boughs of trees
jiggle brown glass leaves and dwarf
the green glass blades of grass.
In the distance lie enormous glass turquoise mountains
where waterfalls of silver glass stream over glass rocks
while the jagged wings of birds hang overhead.
And all the colorful glass people in all the glass towns
look on and look on and look on.
Suddenly, one marble statue topples.
The glass world buckles and shatters
and the stained glass sky comes crashing down.
And in the ensuing silence the smashed glass world
shimmers like a dangling neon jewel
under the gleam of a midnight sun
while the face of a marble nihilist statue
stares out coldly from beneath the rubble
of what was.
— John Hawkins, October 1983, The Mass Media (student publication)
Under a red and rolling sky
as haunted as a Rorschach blot
Energy finds the middle eye
and gleans the epiphanal polyglot.
Now rose, now lavender and gold,
the clouds combust and burn away
shimmering light bursts through: behold —
the awakening we call day.
O, this grey pulpy mass of brain
like a recalcitrant ghost
ratlles the mental window pane
where dull memory stands engrossed.
Yet is shaken from sleep again
as the Sun rises like the blessed host
and gives the middle eye a toast.
- John Kendall Hawkins
On an overcast day
a sunflower droops his head to snooze
and dreams nervously of his idol.
When I wake up
and drowsily lift my face
will I see your flashing eyes?