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I was triumphant in my wandering
as a tool outside the shed
I layed under the skeleton sun
and rusted into lead.
I bestowed you my hands
like some souvenir
we wrote the words
of things unheard
and like a surplus
of Texas hay
I felt you in my bones.
You were born under
a wounded moon
some low month like july
you stood tall
with scraped up knees
starry from the falls
and like your moon
you remain wounded
like a beneficent sailor lost
and searching for the call.
These days I see life
through a scope
all the faces, so close up
all the people, small.
I was feeling once
and I was fickle twice
and I saw freedom
in the eyes of my father,
a ghost.
He faded into sinless laughs
by lips of calabash
parting like parched stalks
on a lonesome farmer's coast.
For a romantic in the cold,
there is only solitude and self-pity
harrowing in the body, hesitantly
pulling downward never painlessly,
in a cue dawdling always behind me.
At the top of the staircase,
all of the air in a square,
square, square, square
the cries echo corners and
you can not help but desire the bottom.
I do not want to fall but my eyes,
they have an impulsive love affair
with angles and air-
To give my fruitless carton
of a body some Freedom
from the ferocity of tomorrow.
The tenor of all the noised voices
dangling me on strings
this way, upways, no, no-ways.
Friends there is no room for your hospitals.
I will not fit into your hungry hands.
I live in fear.
I wish to be afraid of something real
like a loose mutt or a killer.
As a child I would pinch myself
to redirect the pain.
For there is no difference between
the past and now.
You are everything you were,
romantic or not.
I am still under the covers
with my nails digging
the tops of my hands.
And further still,
breathing the air feels
like a climb up the stairs.
It is a dry spell, this lost love.
In the operandi of letting go
you are plagued with a
reverie that has dismissed
its judgements, its manners,
its debts to its own consummation.
This recollection of what has been
is but a severed sentiment
unable to see with the sun
in its eyes, unable to feel
even under the fullest of moons
and surrealist eclipses.
Even if Time weren't
some sculpture we climb,
the past would be inborn numb
like sleep walkers cradled
by their soft steps
tussling like babies utterly
unable to grapple the stretch.
The brooding memoriam
would be crippled to beg
for an ending unlike this.
What is to fear most about such ends?
I do not recall birth
but I will bask in the gallantry of my death.
If I could remain suspended
in the moment of my heart's ease,
I would wield the Albatross
infinitely, with fire
in the palms of my hands.
Alas, such bloodless flames
Alack, the bloodless end.
