"Like Gandhi, I Want More" by William Merricle

Like Gandhi, I Want More


Raindrops penetrate a chthonic sonnet
limning the gluons that propel fetid corpses,
a limping wartime river,
a newfangled abyss the size of a neutron,
your tempting tongue's cruel care,
god's hands covered in dark ointments,
the sickly fire in the center of sincerity,
all the worldly kisses in the afterdeath foyer.

The band strikes up a tune analogous to entropy,
the world turns and twists in Klimt-light,
the beginning of a universe radiates itself out of existence,
wisdom's penetralia deliver a wallop of spontaneous symmetry,
innocence carries profound implications for the concept of putrefaction,
Janus turns lazy and bitter,
I perform a bad imitation of cruelty
for the faces in the back of the car just ahead.

Back of the forest lies groggy with sunshine,
death looks for kindred moisture,
logic emends the manuscript
until it falls off the edge of the world,
rain feels like a dove to the heart,
light predicts the future by
rummaging through the universe's rotting body.
How do I sleep? Because space-time is curved.


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William Merricle lives in Lima, Ohio. He once was the assistant manager of a porn theater, and would open up the little window panel in his office and throw paper airplanes with quotes from Heidegger at the patrons below. His latest chapbook, "Heimlich the Donut," is available from Pudding House Publications.