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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.
I was born pale
and fading like an old bulb.
I want to die this way,
colorless, with a constant
becoming of the air
around, just to dissolve
like a cube of sweet cane
gone, gone,
from the life as
a bird of paradise
spread like a Japanese fan.
Eyes all over me.
In the rarity of being unaware,
fleetingly negligent of
the backs of my hands,
lark hands, the same
lark skin as my neck-
I remember
in the womb I choked myself
into lending some flesh.
If I could just lay on top of you
we might stop breathing
long enough to love the air,
the colorless and constant
becoming of the air,
becoming of everything, all matter,
becoming of the reality bearing
of the becoming of my reverie.
What would you give to become the wind?
Cold with me, strong with me
across continents like a
continental lust for the surface
ennerving the tops of trees,
swinging in hard limbs,
morphing into water
and running down cliffs.
At times I look up and realize
the clouds are still moving.
In theory,
we could hide in these clouds;
but you, like those before,
will fade in the zenith of people
with their pallid operettas
and bastard eyes.
You were born alive and well,
alive and well.
OK,
I will give you the confession of an egoist:
I want to die alone.
Women
deny all sides of the box,
so it is the circle.
Can you feel me in your spine?
The lonely ghosts climbing, comely,
Up, up
Jacob's ladder.
They breathe wind into your ears.
Soft wind in the tunnels that will retire
like maraschino on the tongue.
for you, I'll keep it whole.
My teeth will render secrets
like captive ribs protecting the heart.
Before we tasted, we felt in our spines
like Aurochs with their pastey wings
sweating in the sun.
Up, up,
the secrets they kept had a Florentine concupiscence.
For there is no animality to an angel.
They dance in spirit form.
They think in burning loins,
burning bushes, burning candles
with wax like slow skin.
Freaking out until it's whole.
They are blind angels, bending lights,
awkward angels one by one.
They are the Aurora!
The Roman dawn, the everyman dawn.
Old drunken stratagems that break their clam shells
They die again, again.
They never die, they close their eyes.
I have a secret:
You will not believe the Heaven of your mind.
All of the soft moths
die stiff in the jar.
