What does the light here
taste like? Sweat, inner turmoil,
wet rocks and bone. Nightly,
I pull the voices of dead poets
from this ashes this light leaves.
I arrange these voices
in a cacophonous cluster,
plug my ears with wet sponges,
and turn whatever words
that manage to break through
into lovely little lullabies, which
don’t taste like the light.
I don’t dictate like a didact,
that’s my own upending.
Disenchantment fractures, quells friction.
This isn’t what my addiction stipulates.
Describe comatose fragmentary fails
but correct likening. In sweeps,
in slander, so what slivers.
My oh my freak arabesque.
Slow rumination, I shoulder esoteric,
core profusion and disrupt the now.
The laughingstock or transitory conflagration.
Come up well, solely drip. Lastly, closure.
I can think of nothing
that would please me more.
Rains over the square, the stores
with cracked windows and nothing to sell.
Something is amiss. I tread
this wicked length of street
with hand in pocket,
worrying about the good old days.
It all goes down… Down poorly-lit backroads,
barely paved, shaved atria, slivered mouths.
And then it comes back up
like so much half-digested food.
A new mood is in session,
a kind of regression that intends
to overstay its welcome and leave
all kinds of clutter in its wake.
New headaches and unfinished stanzas,
luminous tumors of regret.
Like a rumor, the moon slips
slyly into view, and I exhale,
gray vapor unspooling
from my brittle lips.
Here it is – the moment
we’ve been training for.
Spent years and years preparing for,
gathering supplies for, living for.
And it all comes down
with an anti-climactic plop,
like a rock you tried to skip,
but whose shape was slightly off,
and rather than skimming
the water’s reflective surface,
toward its filthy depths.
Of course, improper shape
isn’t the issue here. So what is?
We discuss it over cheap beer
and even cheaper cigarettes,
offering up new interpretations
between sips and drags,
but none of them stick,
none of them has that “it” factor
you so often hear about
in corporate meetings.
So we get to talking
about life up until now,
the halcyon days I think they’re called,
and while no new light is being shed
on present circumstances,
it is pleasurable, mildly,
to rehash those old tall tales
we lived through once before.
Lies an innuendo breathe
through ill-lit social circles,
a miasma for the faint-of-heart
to relish. Relinquish deliciously
that which keeps hostage.
I’m not captivated, simply inundated.
Certainly, the light of the ill-fated diminishes…
But not discretely. A pale hand moves
to cover the camera eye.
The sky is a flat gray wall
which no color can breach.
Reach out to the margins, children.
Sleepily in the substantive,
motives move and muscle.
Rude fuss ensues.
Fuse, politely blown.
Grasping for the cluster
of fevered nerves,
never have I been so beautiful.
with a worldly grin and devotion.
My intonation seems off.
Not that I’m better for it,
but that I’m circumscribed.
At least these scribbles
somehow assume a meaning
when pressed. Dressed in fire,
perspiring still. But
this is my own illness, which
is more than some can say.