Around 1 a.m.

I hear some sort of distant emergency vehicle make a sound halfway between a horny drunk and a shaman. Foreshortened siren. Miles from here. I hear two cats fighting or consummating. Much closer, but who can tell?  I hear silver leaves of Andromeda falling through the vacuum of space. In the vacuum of space, where nothing hears nothing. I am listening there. Tonight. They may land on your shoulder. They usually do. So I will think about them some more. I will be a home to the sound of their homelessness.

Elysium

I used to be afraid
of my own rusted screens
the brown palms
of my hands on their overtime
like the hills
you swept them under

I cannot price
the molehill
of the language we use now
there is a bitterness
there is an equality
it is very much of these flowers

at least

the problem of the personality has been solved

It was solved not for x or y

but this golden field

this nubile cloud above it

Dangling

Where are you asleep
And can I touch you there
The spiderweb you gave me so lightly
I can’t seem to sunder its threads
Its words, filaments of light

Oh, you are the darker wavelengths for sure

You will have guessed by now
My hatred of you was not hatred
The hatred I turned to disbelief
A doorknob with no door
A door with no house
That sort of logic

I knew you would only repeat as the comet
You are an inveterate repeater
Because you are desire and more
I leave a place for you at the table
The table is a dream, an alphabet
I leave a place for you also at the lake
The lake is only another table
A place for you to dangle feet

I save a place for you there

And in the cemetery next to me I hold your seat

Since I hope to shamelessly continue

I am still much interested in the crime of your hand

 

 

Baltimore

If I fail to speak to you
As a mirror to a stone in a reader’s desert
As a leaf who has fallen on a car’s hood
Who
Well, we know the Gemini of our feelings
You cross yourself throughout several lifetimes just this way
As the whales traverse oceans
This selfsame moment
We have someone else’s difficult conversation
There is no music for my feelings today
That is the problem over here
(I’m all poppy fields this afternoon)
You have a museum for yours
Still, we are birds of a single claw
This is only a cafeteria where we sit
Who do we think we are catfishing?
As the other couples about us
Other bodies beyond the plate glass
Are doing their duty and becoming reflections
On this day of mercurial puddles
That is the real museum
Out there, good luck it says
Our feeling falls
As a stone’s query to a mirror
As a car that tells a dried leaf danging above it

“Jump and I will catch you”

If

If love: Even in ancient China, we learn from a text written in the 3rd century by Lie Zi, there was an automaton crafted by Yan Shi, a mechanical engineer, who supplicated to King Mu of Zhou (1023-957), a life-size human figure that walked, that winked its eye at court ladies, and that was made only of leather, wood, glue and lacquer: white, black, red and blue lacquer. All the internal organs were present as a sort of visual gift. A condescension. If the King removed its heart, this poor creature could not speak. So much poetry had gone into the crafting of a monster. Nobody knows or knew whence its muscles, its bones and limbs with joints, skin, its teeth and hair the King loved to finger. Perhaps it is best never ask. There is a darkness to such editing. The King continued to explore his new beloved. If he removed the liver, its eyes went blank. If he stole its kidneys, the legs could no longer cross the ballroom. The King was delighted.

Otherness

All of this is for the other, the glorification of the other.
That the other might light up,
refuses, light up.

Your DNA is cold and alone.

The only thing which can occur is the magnification
of acts. It is a tree and we decorate it
with lights in a dark season.

Your DNA has plans for you.

“These words are not clusters
but plasmas,” I promised.

The blond couple walks alongside the river, along
coldness, on top of planks they walk
as in a woodcut, hand in glove,
they are pointing,
expanding, a contract
that lovers strike up, fingers aimed
to well-tuned whispers
out over a bay’s slant dark heft of blue
at evening.

Someone’s DNA attempts to blur it.

They click and mutter as animatronics
of a Japanese haunted house. A sky looks this way
over an ocean, it is flame-retardant,
two-dimensional. As we have Munch’s

tepid Annunciations, we smile
sourly into them:

headaches of desire, vampires, clocks,
coat hangers,
orbs on the horizon, naked old men
become profiles,
standing haunts
turning back to woods. These things

happen for a reason. Your DNA
is caustic, trapped. There is a sheep
wandering the distance,

grazing a cold green line towards a mountain,

but it is no lamb.

Against Emotion

Sleep, birds or wonder, if you must,
Drowse, wrath, weather on your divan,
Unincorporate, madness, return my marbles
Once scattered in such longing luxury of losing

Velvet crush on stranger couch, flit, avaunt,
Jealousy of legion ants swarming a spat candy,
Darken my kingdom’s confectionary door no more,
Fond icing sugary as men, cupped grace, back off my eyes

Braids of leisure in lover’s hammock arms,
String of lions with hair madly loyal, matted tawn,
Subway of escape at 3 a.m., headlight names,
We must break up, my hothead lover is a Coke machine

someone’s form once left lit in bodily street darkness

so now his engines seize