My lime-scented aria reached
only the first row of the auditorium.
It seems I’ve not succeeded
in making a point, if indeed a point
is what I’ve set out to make.
I can’t properly express myself
without a caffeine headache.
For once, I’d like to quake with relief,
with satisfaction, anything
other than the feeling which follows
a glorious fuck-up.
Silence, sweet sinewy silence,
tuck me under your arm,
and deliver me from disquiet!
The feeling is fractioned.
No one ever gains traction
in this weather. Strange
rumblings from the nether
regions and an ever deepening sky.
They called us the creeps of conscience,
but never asked for our names,
never endeavored to understand our aims.
The air is stacked with moot points
and refuted claims.
There’s the fountainhead, teeming
with dead ecstasies, its surface murky.
So this is what we’ve been
Sick of the casket scene,
I’m scheming methods of dispersal.
Consider this a refusal to yield
to the clumsy wheel of the era.
Real talk. My desire to fuck
wears a chalk headdress
and addresses me formally.
Formations of diaphanous compost
compose the space twixt my eyes,
unattended fears and willful blindness
undressing in a meteor rain.
It’s the same on both sides.
Flow ride. Guided tinsel. Travesty.
Hashtags rotting inside of their cells.
The loneliest people
in the whole wide world
are the ones you’re never
going to see again.
From end to end, the book is burning,
words ablaze with reckless yearning,
and in time, the years will turn us all
into deposits of pillowy ash.
It happens in a flash,
and when the flash is over,
you forget that it was even there.
The summer air leaves a trail
of tangled elegies
everywhere it goes.
It’s not the hammer but the blows
that drive the nail into the hand.
Sands shift, sails lift.
Every rift begins as a hairline fracture.
Behold the sepulcher of love.
Push, but don’t shove
your way through
the muddled mess
of huddled masses.
I bet you kiss asses for a living.
The swamp gasses of truth
will turn your eyeballs inside out,
churn the juices in your cortex
until your cortex is a vortex. Il n’y a pas de hors-texte.
What came before
and what comes next
will contextualize this sentence.
At most this is an overzealous attempt
at gratuitous self-expression.
The geography of the human spirit
is half-desert, half-tundra.
The most epic blunder one can conceive.
I’ll make a believer of you yet,
I just need a plan and a reprieve
from today’s vast humidity.
Dusk arrives with increasing rapidity
in this world of 28 suns.
It’s my love for you that unfurls
the tapestry of indecision.
Six drinks and eight revisions later,
I still don’t have this poem right.