A Scandal in Peril | Cedar Sigo

A Scandal in Peril

Clear light and illusion become one​​ 

these murals are​​ ‘for’​​ not​​ ‘of’​​ the dead.

Two stone heads, sunken garden​​ adorned​​ 

in weak calypso breezes plural

shadowed in carpets,​​ hung as​​ one​​ dome.​​ 

No immediate reflection nor surface​​ 

tension interwoven. The yantra​​ is​​ in free float​​ 

inversion. The sun is a wide​​ 

stone circle, flat gray.​​ 

The approach to music is still stanzas,​​ 

a register​​ I​​ no longer have to fight for exactly,​​ 

I​​ have lived here​​ indefinitely.​​ 

A wet handful of old ballads, scattered​​ ash,​​ and lime,​​ 

badly smeared nothingish dahlias,​​ 

dry stems cross,​​ tugging at the bright knit of the metal.​​ 

What amounts to​​ the​​ blind wrap around​​ 

hustle of the paint,​​ one​​ crooked and ongoing​​ 

unapologetic​​ gesture.​​ 

It’s the neon white that lightens the box car,​​ 

a truly heavenly rise from pavements field theory.

What​​ a relief his work is without​​ those

flaunted figures anymore, I mean​​ 

faces destroy me, those hacked out from the legend​​ 

now here​​ in reverse relief, standing back.​​ 

We don’t need middle henchman period,​​ 

nor to drive to the office every morning anymore.​​ 

I refuse a plagiarized request to recuse myself.​​ 

Through mountains of tape​​ 

and beautifully redacted death poems​​ 

a scandal in peril​​ emerges.​​ 

The samsara of fuckedupedness​​ 

has caused the hall mirror to split​​ 

and a​​ nearby​​ stupa to foreclose​​ 

now​​ facing the​​ red​​ sky.​​ 

I blame the new poetic forensics.

Orange flower​​ and rose​​ are more​​ like​​ flavors​​ 

than​​ a solid light we live inside of​​ 

or​​ bend to our​​ fleeting​​ will,​​ 

no moat linking paradise​​ 

and there is hardly one posture to align with this.​​