Old Man at Faucet

The spigot
grows dark
becomes more
becomes more itself
more happenstance
It flows relentless
less personalized
lighter
because heeded less
the sense of cold
of the water
beginning to speak
begging
louder
cold taken apart
from water
The sense of a river
behind it
the yawn
of its source
a terror thing
as the yawn
of memory
widens the mouth
of the river
where no one
stands or looks
tonight tonight
where no body is
since they are all
downstream
In another room
another house
or apartment
It is only
a clear glass
of water
in another’s
turning hand
as the fish
in the river
young
and constantly
turning

 

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.

Asshole Poem

Pull yourself together, Jesus said.
Think of how an umbrella is
like a composed statesman
after a rainstorm. How he draws
himself in. Can’t you be more
retractible like that? Collapsible
as a magic cup? But I thought
only: ducks, shaking out their wings,
secondhand rain flying
in everyone’s faces,
pissing off the swans
who act like rap stars in lobbies.
And then quacking, in despair,
I rolled my eggs into the creek,
because they were only more ducks,
passive-aggressive despair,
like the rain. Like the rain,
I am a badass.