Really, I could be
more interesting if I tried.
And more interested,
but that’s a problem
for another week.
I don’t speak so coherently lately,
that’s for you to decide,
and the color red
gives me the shakes.
Now discerning the aroma
of fried brains in the hall…
A scraping coming from the wall…
How shall I get on
with things anymore?
A newer, sinister mood
is coming up with the sun,
casting a heavy cloth
over my watery eyes.
The text has unfolded its intent,
spread it over the dry grass to bask
in the arid sense of wanting
to be elsewhere. The chapters
have charted a course for an obscure star.
You mull over the typeface index,
searching for an attractive way
to present a harsh but well-intentioned truth.
Like a tooth falls the moon
and its accoutrements, but the day
comes on darker than stained glass.
Your mouth is in no shape
for carrying graven images, golden calves
of commerce and oblivion.
Sometimes, it’s necessary to add water.
Sometimes, it’s necessary to make
dense predictions about the weather.
Still, when push comes to shove,
the tensile strength of the tether
makes all the difference.
What is it that looms beyond
these minutes, that ambiguous presence
whose splayed hand contains
the rain storms and metallic suns
of Decembers past? When
did I see you last? It might have been
in the corridors of a dream,
but I have no proof of this. Rather,
what I have is a sequence of colors
and their corresponding sounds.
This room, lit by the little miracle
of your once-being-here, a dull glow
steadily tapering into darkness.
I had some things I’d wanted to tell you.
Do they still matter? Surely
the fact that they persistently arise
in my gutted heart like frost
on leaves of grass counts for something.
Not much, I’d reckon, but
my own reckoning is of equal worth.
I’d like to look you in the eyes again.
I’d like the feel of your lips
against mine for the first time
and every time after.
I’d like for you to know definitively
that I’ve been thinking about you.
One more narrative thrust.
Certain kinds of trust
ramble along the mind’s interior
without any introduction,
doing their own thing,
singing careless hymns.
More often, I’m startled
by the grim face I always seem
to be wearing when
the angels come jostling.
Time for a new hustle.
Autumn wives rustle fingerprints
with slick and sinewy
motions of the spine.
Further down the line,
my memory begins
to anthologize itself
and gets real dickish about it.
Just once, I’d like to sleep
through my alarms.
The feeding frenzy in my chest.
Distracted by the pangs,
not a moment in sight
to advance splinters.
astride the weight of the womb.
Jurisdiction matters in our life across the hall.
The wall reaches out to touch
where our faces have been,
and in a manner of speaking.
Nothing was my discovery.
It might be that description matters less than I credit it
and that these perspectives are but coarse strokes of brush
that manifest an unsteady portrait.
It’s true my eyes are water
and so too my fingers, thrumming
hard gloss of book
while energy degrades energy
beneath a beguiling moon.