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.
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.
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.
Get a load of my swag.
Get a load of the baggy eyed bullshitters
dragging mountains through mounting heat.
We fall to pieces in sweet remorse,
horses built from glass.
The rain acknowledges us in passing.
In the mass of days ahead of us,
our mirrors start to bleed.