The awakening weakens
and a singing persists
in the background.
Frequently, I falter.
Alter moon’s course
with a deft wrist flick.
Something sickening here,
something mauve and maudlin,
accosts me and demands
I announce my presence.
Not a lot to go on.
Iridescence of the room
crashes ass-first against
my gaze before blazing on
to the next finite space.
In case of emergency,
Certainly, a show of spectacular
oracle forgery flowing stealthily
into plain debauchery as a moment dislocates
its content, is least of all
what one would call “simplicity.”
Behind these plastic walls
hide a host of sleazy eccentricities
I’m ill-disposed to ignore, but
that’s just what I’m doing, presuming instead
to pick apart my glue-encrusted thesis
piece by piece until the underlying nothing
is revealed at last and swells
to a proportion monstrous and disconcerting.
What I do with my own hurting
is my own business, thanks, and if the cranking
of its desperate gears is grating or offensive
to more delicate constitutions,
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
This idle certainty appalls,
though I seek shelter
in what it discloses.
It takes years to occupy
the space between one phrase
and the next.
I could be hollow-bodied.
Or else a variation of entropy…
With one kiss I could negate me
and all my meanings.
Partially golden and disguised.
Eyes trained on a quivering.
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.