Tactility

3.9

2011-09-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

A star is giving up its gaseous blood:
yellow and blue and red.
Her white hands and feet curl inward.
Her white ribs bend and sparkle and crack
with quiessent shrieks
like the sound of an infant
sucking milk.
She dies with gauche perplexity,
florid naivety,
like our love,
held in time that is only imagined.
We could not see her then,
three point nine billion years ago.
Now, we are unable to look away.

Visitation

2011-08-30T20:53:00.000-07:00

I begged you not to come closer,
I said this inside my mind but I knew
You would hear me.

"I think I will lose my shit", I said.
It's true, I want this.

I am not surprised
that you are capable of this,
coming into my dream.
I'm just a bit rattled because
now I'm awake
and you're still here and
that song from my dream is still
playing in my head,
or out of it.

You parachuted into my dream.
You materialized,
took form and character,
unrecognizable,
but I knew you.

In my dream I could trust you.
It was as though I already knew
I would win.

I played the carnival colored organ
and the lights swirled around us.
I was allowed to play it and it
played the only song it knew:
The song of my reparation,
"All things mended, all things well...."
Pressing down
on the organ pedals
with my feet
like a man running
the last mile home
from war.

Your eyes are steady now
on the dials whirling
over the organ pipes,
and the lights flashing
purple and green
and pink and blue.

I don't care what happens now.
I'm awake
and you're here.
You've met me.
But where have I been?
I know you won't stay.

"Play the song", You say.

I'm writing down everything You say,
It will be over soon,
and I'm almost grateful for that.

You're intense now
more than usual.
What's that?
O yes,
ask you anything.
Well, yes.

"Did you want me to go to seminary?" I said.

"I don't want you to do anything…in order to prove your worth", You said.

On the couch I feel sleepy again.
"Are you leaving?" I said,
"No." You said,
"Thank you", I said, "for coming"

Next Morning

2011-08-28T19:47:00.000-07:00

My modest, sacred wine.
I fear how much I love you.
Your mouth drips flavors,
The taste of everything I desire.
You make me a politician: empty handed.
When did I deserve you?
I did not believe you could exist.

Princeton

2011-08-16T21:33:00.001-07:00

Ice cream,
a dark pub,
perhaps an antique bicycle—
Blue dress shirts—
No under shirt—
A brass ring.
That Garden
Again.
Ice Cream.
I’m ready to start my rock band.

When I catch up with myself

2011-08-16T21:32:00.000-07:00

i.

When I catch up with myself I'm never what I expected me to be.
"Treat yourself as you would a friend."
(Say hi and smile and offer to buy breakfast soon)
"We'll have to catch up soon..."
When I catch up with myself.

ii.

Youth is not so much fading as it is fixed.
Something held and then let go.or. Something tampered with.
Something snatched away from limp hands grasping Cheerios
Fallen between the seats.

iii.

Bricks and beauty change with years.
You begin to notice that bricks are different colors.
We touch the hand of a corpse
And neither the artificial flowers of the corpse are a pity to us.

"They are typical", we say
And we despise them
Only the truly special will escape us.
So very particular indeed.

There are demons crouching behind our teeth
Making us animals,
Making us things,
Making us kings.

iv.

Simplify this supper of the lamb.
Give me blood and oranges.
Do you pertain to me?
Will we duel for the hope of it?
Will I find it fitting?

v.

But let's keep in step. There's a rough edge here. A sharp cadence calling: adrift, adrift.
Your refuse will not boat the sirens song again. No, the sailors have all but three teeth and
Will be feasting at long tables of pine.

I'm too impatient to wait for you there. Forgive me if I taste the soup and stare mournfully into my spoon.
My face looks far away...I miss my face in the muddied orb of my spoon. I've kept it for you. Will you
Have me now? Have me whole. This urgency we've known...What is mercy?

Don't You Wonder 'bout Me?

2011-08-16T21:31:00.000-07:00

Don't you wonder 'bout me?
I wonder about you.
Don't you wait for me to lift
My seer's eyes from
Artificial pages
Pretending to read but
Looking far into your future
For that shirt lifted up along
One side when you turn the page
Or scratch an itch
I'd like to scratch it for you
With my addicted pain?
That bare skin is my whole bent
And I can't sway this barg's burden,
Ropes ain't holding that shit no more.
It's breaking down here.
I'm breaking down there.
Come smoke me out.
You won't bring no broom
when you come disturbing my nest.
Its that sting you dreamed when you
Swallowed under your breath.
Go ahead,
catch your breath.

relic 1

2011-08-16T21:28:00.000-07:00

It's embarrassing
But I'll admit to feeling a degree of lostness.
Irreparable. Vast.

I long for the smell of saddlebags;
The shiny serenity of compasses
Relics of an ancient adventure
All mine.

I am king of this adventure.
There are pieces of it on my shelf,
In my closet,
In boxes.
River stones.
Tiny, colored rocks

I want buffalo jerky and cornbread.
Beans over a fire,
A morning pipe
And the obligation of fishing.

I want a cold stream
And wet enduring horses
Keeping their heads above water
Across a river.
The wilderness.

This lethargy will die in the wilderness.
This disdain for life.
I'll seek the lost hours of miniature wars
And red wax ammunition.

A tall horse will befriend me.
I'll want to collect horse shoes and wait
For them to tarnish in the rain
Or on the floor of the stable
Perfectly there or there.

When he is finished walking,
We we will stop under acacia boughs
And say nothing at all.
We despise words

Warm under the shade tree
There is nothing left
Even Death
Will not trouble us with exaggeration.

When we rise it will be for the last time.
For all time.
It is perfect for us to stay here.

In silence.
Unperturbed.
It's all we've ever truly known.

Gypsies

2011-08-16T21:15:00.000-07:00

Your hand on my leg
Feels like a sack of grain.

I'm full of skillet fixins,
lukewarm coffee
and the orange juice
I should have avoided.
It always makes me anxious.

Their voices quivered
over breakfast
and sang
over dinner last night.

A shakespearean profusion
of Island tales
and dining room gossip. Touching.

But I do not want
to be touched
without greed,
without desire.
Your hand on my leg feels like
A sleeping child.
Weighty and adhesive.

It's for you.
It's something you need.
So I oblige it.

I could've broken my wrist
jumping over the balcony like that,
In slow motion.

In that moment, I too was old and forgetful.
I'm sweating a little in my jeans underneath the place
your hand is resting,
on my leg.

If only you could need me a little
less than I fear you do.
If only we could be like two gypsies,
companions for a journey
without end.