You tease me,
with a voice
as heavy as marble
and as green as marijuana.
Be gentle, or else.
I might unravel,
nerve by nerve,
and end as a squishy bundle
of bloodied threads
in the center
of your chamber
and royally undermine
your feng shui.
Soon to be culled,
some whispering deficiency
and all it holds dear.
The searing flames later we sired.
Then what was up with the perspiring,
the wandering choir
or we had once a tower
erected of names
(We were once a tower).
The calendar shifted.
We misplaced vows.
Nurtured the we that spin
and cry in some weird hurricane of lust.
The thought that counts its fingers.
You and me, we two in trust,
lingering where our folly bleeds.
It’s 3:20AM and I’ve barely written
a thing, so am I truly going nuts?
I can’t even squeeze out enough
juice to write a personal poem
a la Frank O’Hara, that’s saying something.
I’ve had my share of caffeine, now
my eyes clink! the torture. And also
the torture of knowing that someone
you love is somewhere else sleeping
deeply while you sit dumbly
in an ill-lit house trying to
put words on a page.
A tender wind spins through the trees,
upsetting the branches’ slumber.
This means Springtime in the East.
Tonight, we feast on beastly striving.
When the burning hour comes,
we’ll drink in its fire,
our perspiring recollection
reflected in the glow.
There’ll be rain but no drear tonight,
I’ve declared it so. Here, the moon
is swooning in a tarry cloister,
moisture of an overflowing love
shoving shadows off the grid.
And there’s dancing, much dancing,
a muddled magic wafting,
and rhythm daring.
Staring through a window,
mouthing along to the words
of a Mountain Goats song
is a most appropriate thing to do.
So is smoking candle wax,
and so is being close to you.
Triple axioms grace the mantle
of my adolescent allegories,
and sometimes, a few stories up,
where in white washed rooms,
people offer up their obscure prayers
to an even more obscure deity
with scarlet eyes, storms erupt in chorus.
If the idea isn’t to bore us into
a drooling stupor, it feels an awful lot
like it could be. I still have
some psychic damage from the last time,
fuck you very much. Very soon,
some wayward pressure is going
to force its way through the windows
and make of a mockery
of my self-conceit.
Beats fabricating shadows,
if you know what I mean.