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The entrance into the ass threshold is erected
like a monumental curtain. The solid fabric of
the threshold is the color of light wheat and
won’t flap in the wind and its minimal
promenade of wheat is designed to welcome
visitors into its sovereign asshole. There is
something sacred about this vulgar act of
hospitality. Even at the footing of this ass-temple
are two eyes. While one gesture invites,
the other repudiates, sending mixed signals like a
schizophrenic.
This image is profane. It is a chicken displaying
its vaginal entrance to the viewers while bending
over, head to the ground, chicken legs spread.
The vaginal entrance of the sheep-chicken is
extraordinary in the sense that it has two vaginal
thresholds. This is fairly impressive, considering
that most have only one. Does it appear morbid?
This vulgarity? Or is it entertaining? Meanwhile,
is that a dog?
What would you do if you had an asshole in a
jewelry vault the size of a hostia vault? And what
if sitting beneath that fault were an elderly elf in
transparency? And what if sitting beneath this
tiered layer of transparency were another elf
wearing bat wings and whose v-shaped chin was
coruscating like an arrow of light? And what if,
amongst all of this mythological mysticism, the
armless shoulders of a sheep were standing in
ontological temptation of its scrawny winged
existence: the standing-posture-of-a-human
sheep is thinking: how can I fly when my wings
are made of four skinny blades of wheat, one on
each side?
More or less the sheep-windmill structure has
bestowed on the grass a crown made of thorny
wheat and a circle of emptiness so the nose of
the windmill can sniff, can inhale, can partake in
the afternoon grass smelling contest. Join in the
festival of delusion. And the illusion of having
been born in the wrong kind of olfactory
century.
You think your divinity can turn its sexy back on
you, wings folding inside as if to conceal flight,
but the bulbous tailbone of your existence ends
up betraying you. Five of you turning like so, like
angel machines in the afternoon light. Even in
this light, your purity can condemn you and
parts of you will never forgive the cosmos for
bowing its angelic head as if it had been
decapitated by incorruptibility.
Vi Khi Nao is the author of novel, Fish in Exile, and poetry collection, The Old Philosopher. Vi’s work includes poetry, fiction, film and cross-genre collaboration. She was the winner of 2014 Nightboat Poetry Prize and the 2016 Ronald Sukenick Innovative Fiction Contest. These poems are from the poetry collection Umbilical Hospital, out on 1913 Press this summer.
This originally appeared on January 20, 2017