[Lunch.]

Uncharacteristically, optimistically
I burst with generosity
as the fatefully Y-chromosomed
walk the streets
of Wall and Square
in their self-applied Windsor-knotted nooses,
leashes in waiting, flirting with the breeze

as I watch.
I see in their faces
seemingly inviolable
exhibitions of determination;
never a moment of weakness,
or vulnerability,
or epicine expression. 

Did they do this to themselves,
or did some ancient matriarchy
devise the modern slave trade?
The mothers are still laughing,
and their masks would laugh too
if they could hear such thoughts.

But they can’t,
they’re too numb with numbers,
counting, but on what?
They tell me without voices:
They need to feel their worth,
their skin, their bones.

And so they’ll come to me later
in the dark
with wallets too fat,
asking to give it back,
they want it all back,
they want relief. 
And I’ll give it to them,
once I’ve had my nap.

[top]

[Pretty.]

I’ve seen it tonight, destruction, love inside it. 
Rather, that destruction inside the membrane. 
What a pretty word, filled with richness,
ringing of ever afters and sunset horses. 

What I’ve just gleaned are catastrophic precipices,
And shrewdly hidden choices. 
Easy to ignore, it’s worth it, the disaster is.
The unfolding crinkles and jagged gaps
are frosted with sprinkles and pink paints.
I want it, I tug at myself and hold my breath. 

Love, full of red blood, coursing through,
making beats rhythmic, fooling sensuality again. 
It’s only red when it hits air though.
Love can be felt only when it’s exposed,
about to die. 

It should remain blue and unseen, untouched, pure. 
My hidden heart beats logically,
it feels best when locked up and protected. 
No matter, I’ll blind my mind for an instant,
expose my blood to air, feel it draining,
rivulets looking for a fresh wound to puddle with,
our tincture of trying.

[top]

[Always.]

I see her three dimensionally waxy rouged
Shining smile pale and glowing immutable
I dress her in reds to match her slick lips
The eternal cherries don’t lie or promise

I want her there facing me
As she’s always been as she wants to have existed
I have no need for now when I’ve preserved
All that was real then in a perfect moment

[top]

[Resuscitation.]

Though it takes a lifetime of breath to tell you,
I’ve discovered I’m breathing, so I’ll start now.
I’m breathing again, from some unknown origin,
somewhere I won’t disclose to myself.

Bravely optimistic, it expands my lungs
and travels the canals of my throat,
my throat constricted in hesitancy,
thick with anticipation.
The breath no longer breathless,
now tests itself against my tongue,
swirling and warming itself, my tongue contorting,
brushing and touching places inside my mouth,
against my teeth, struggling to form
all the sounds that will build the words,
that will come out through my lips,
lips impatient with formalities of breath,
throat, tongue, and teeth.

Lips that want to open and close,
to stretch and contract,
to shape these sounds,
to give you what you should have received
such a fucking long time ago.
My lips want to breath whispers against
your lips, vivid descriptions of your lips’
outrageous perfection,
their warmth and generosity,
their prolific genius.  
Your lips, messengers of infinite
depth and texture, silence mine ruthlessly.

This is too much, only it can’t possibly be enough.  
When I close my eyes, I see your eyes,
haloed, clear, fluent in every language,
full of invitation, shining with pleasure,
complicated with legions of gilded blues and greens,
vulnerable in their honesty,
strong with piercing truth.
Requisite endless consecutive lifetimes of breath
to describe the art invented by
the contours of your body,
the invisible fragrance of your skin,
your sweet silky glow still enveloping me.

My skin remembers your touch
like a cold windowpane traces the memory of
a hot hand against it,
now much too far away from me to describe further.  
To stay on this train of thought holds
the threat of physical pain,
lucky for me I’ve been inoculated for the trip home.  

[top]

[Instead of Sleep.]

When I left you again,
I tried to sleep,
instead a poem began to form behind my eyelids.
Not the first,
but the first no one told me to try for.

Less words than contrasting heat and cold,
soft and sharp,
liquid moisture and hard crystallization.
Desire to sleep,
but more the need to touch my skin
where you last touched me.

Not so much words
as images of twin depressions under covers.
Our warm body outlines
trace a deceased act of love.

Scents still mingling on sheets
that don’t care our bodies aren’t there
on the bed I refused to make,
our footsteps now clicking echoes.
A memory to come.

[top]

[Less One.]

Heels clicking, echoing marble hallway,
stairs leading to the street.
The two of them, absorbed by the city,
injected into street arteries,
now gone, but only from here.

We are fresh from their leaving:
apartment, still warm from body heat
still emanating from sheets
crumpled and twisted,
shielding a bed left unmade.

The bed remembers, anticipating return.
Less its distraction of sleep,
it shivers with longing, warmth now impossible,
robbed of passion in concentrate,
of freedom encapsulate.

Empty surfaces, not of objects, but of activity.
Full of objects no longer active in their hands.
Books, a magazine, half consumed.
Words, waiting for attention, for eyes to
brush across them, minds to hold them.

One fragrant flower, standing in cobalt,
white shyly curling petals
pointing around the room
towards indifferent white walls. Walls, unimpressed,
their backs to a non-existent world.

Stark walls, propping up a chaste armoire,
an uneasy dresser, holding in its drawers,
hiding silk, lace, rough cotton,
proof of past, of capriciousness,
of counterfeit guarantees.

Finally curtains, the most privileged,
our ambassadors, watching for them behind
dirty panes, flapping with the open door,
exhaling deeply with its shutting
behind one, less the other.

[top]

[Drag.]

Running it keeps running I can’t
hold it.  I’m drowning. 
No need to hold my breath,
no breath there.  The air
inside bound in suspension. 
And where’s my time?  The tick once muffled, comforting
is loud is ominous,
stretching to a long scrape,
a rake a reminder,
stuck in my lungs,
of breath ignored.  Stopped, maybe time but not
the rush the course of this newest antibody. 
In the lower layers of no particular region,
the entire topography of my body,
a flowing a current swirls
dips into my recesses,
pulls me around, pushes me still and down.  Static, still, I will my mind numb,
the tick stretches and grates
towards opacity liquid shadow. 
I wander knowing
anyone lost gets found or finds
another means of entry
even in remaining lost.  Breath caught in mid exhale
or was it inhale it’s hard to tell
when exit is the same as entry. 
That breath pulsing constricting,
it wants to betray me to everything
not contained within this casing
skin, nails, hair fused by heat by want. 

I think she would save me if she knew how
if she knew right now how
and I could stop this running in place,
this lack of space, implosion of stillness,
this waiting, and she’d cure me
of this waiting of this wasting disease. 
And where’s my time?

[top]

[Skin.]

So transparent
Your skin once invited me
I swam in your layersYou once called me tenacious
Now I’m tenuous
Waiting for you dilutes timeThis wind blows away your art
Graffiti that defined me
Weathered smooth undefinable

Those cells I leave to dust collectors
Have nothing to do with fresh exposure
What a worthless parting gift

[top]

[Passtime.]

I’ve got a lot going on.
I’m working to save the world,
to save money, to save time to savor time
for later, when I’ll have it to savor.

I’m planning my life, and my friends’ lives,
and giving suggestions to strangers.
I’m fitting everything in.
I’m solving all problems,
and anticipating all needs.

I’ve got creating building figuring out to do.
I’ve got to do more to think less about myself,
and why I might need every moment filled,
no time to feel too much pleasure or pain,
both leading to an uncontrollable cycle of both.
But I’m lucky, I’ve got so much to control,
it’s all under control.

I’ve got to control myself.

[top]

[There.]

It’s the line I see it from here I want to step over it but I’m stopping myself I would once have tripped myself over but now I watch carefully I root for both sides I wait I wonder I know I will let myself win I’m just slowing down to make it get bigger to make sure it knows what it is It’s just a question of time they say I’ll get what I want when I figure out what that is

[top]

[Dis-ease.]

Strange beauty in the piercing of flesh,
exquisitely sharp points slipping between
skin cells, fresh and soft and raw as
pastry before heat, finding what’s underneath,
emerging again to the other side.
I don’t want to hurt you,
I just want to be inside you,
to feel you feel me.

Amused at the mockery of death,
its absurd contortions.
Not aroused
but there is connect
between life and sex,
and death’s lack of it.

Inject me, electrically,
I’ll be the permanent shape and shadow
under pale skin, after age takes you
I will be all that lasts, what they remember,
what you see in the mirror.
I’m what hides you from you.

Shock for entertainment,
surprise for pleasure.
Texture in layers induced by pain?
Stand too close to the precipice,
keep what’s beyond in peripheral,
away from middle senses.

I am not opposed to comfort,
but I will poke at it, push it, tweak it,
strip it, expose it
to escape its numbness.
I will invite pain into fissures,
newly stretched extremities,
to avoid too much comfort.

[top]

[Inheritance.]

The deed to their misery trusted to my care.
A property built high and solid of
soundproof bricks, sealed tightly with a dense mortar of pain, our tenancy in common.

With skyline behind, the city of dead
scrapes a lower sky, 
tombstones for headboards
a jagged field of marble and cement – windowless, soulless, silent.

The living city envies the sarcophagus,
stands looming, protecting, watching,
waiting to empty its larger monuments down to colder, quieter tombs.

[top]