Along the dusted edges
of a world unknown
bodies trailing by
I walk as though a secret
as though a memory
an ivory mist between the fingers
a dream of a time to come
not promised, not spoken of.
We hold onto hope the way we bow our bright eyes into the fog, made in the image of ghosts, made of wisps of fading photograph delirium, the glow at the tips of fireflies against water in the dark. Reflections. Illusions. For everything we hold we wish were something else.
If we are not lovers, if we are not bound together by vein or tongue or country, if our visions eclipse each other but do not touch, then let the world be brought into eternal solitude, let the earth beneath my grass wet feet weep only to be alone. There is something here we refuse to see. Something intelligent, calling to us with its mouth, a wide gray ocean, fingers tearing open knees, rain pricks stiff along the neck beneath the trees.
And we drift, we are adrift, we grasp for what we cannot believe only to fall again upon ourselves. This is me against me. This is you against you, and every mirror is another hall. The rolling thunder of this bone longing, this desperation. Press your palms to mine, I can feel your heart bleeding into time. And as the sun turns down her body to blue sing the mountains to sleep, I am a wanderer inside for the way we do not see. A vessel for the silence crawling along the seams.
The words come as I forget to eat and try to catch them
sand falls through time.
I hope you dream bigger than this.
I hope that you do not give up or turn to face
without tucking your fingers into the hands
of the light.
Hold them close when they are madness
let their voices sing in your mind
when they leave you for dead.
The people who come too close
The ones who leave
still teach if you can learn not to let fear
take you under.
This life as she looks you in the eye
is falling away from under your feet
do not stop
do not give up
do not keep the words in drawers
but if you need to
go away for a long time
and let the sea kiss you
Has this been the hurt inside of you
these cuts on my hands
the crush of broken promises.
Your static mouth a shrieking fog
buzzing in my head, humming –
you like grains of sand
scratching a desert
in my throat.
Remember me a grapefruit moon
hanging in your rear view mirror
love in the back seat
melon. sunset. smoke.
took a back seat.
Now the morning rolls down her sheets
silicone heat waves sweat across my tongue.
I listen for you but all that moves nails along the wall
are reflections of an empty afternoon.
(my arms reach
for three corners from this corner)
The windows are swallowing sunlight
the sunlight is dangling through trees
traces of a dim lit landscape
you used to speak of
His dark eyes took hold of the neck
drank full the body for his pleasure:
Little midnight flower, how you wear patience
like the folded lace hands of time
melting between two trembling thighs.
My sapphire beauty, fingering the walls
of a deviant mind.
His fingers sunk pale hooks
upon the alabaster jaw:
study me with those wet eyes, angel.
Be still and I will teach you
all that cruel body aches
I know you are not listening.
I know there is a voice which speaks to you
and you hold its neck beneath the
choke the truth
that’s choking you.
You are silent, thrumming in stoic madness
to keep it hush.
It is silent
but the truth is a disease with no breath
carried along on the scarred back of eternal breeding.
It has no heart for beating
or not beating,
shadowboxing with the pulse of
a faceless time of day,
swing and a miss
and miss, miss, miss.
What you fight is what is biting
you, the Mistress and her missing fingers and
her broken window teeth.
She is there despite you
in you because of what you are
and the howl in your stomach is filling
itself as you swallow its tongue
cursed hunger without permission
filling itself with rage.
Maybe not everyone will like it but I wanted to write a while on sadness. I needed to.
Why? Because this is something we all live with, live within. It’s all around and underneath our fingernails, our tongues. Sadness is upon our shoulders, in the hand of our minds. I want to write from it, I want to become her lips and bones and match my heartbeat to hers.
I want to listen.
The only thing more crushing than sadness is sadness which is lonely.
I think they are probably going to leave. It will be a thing you said as your eyes slid clear past them to the corner of the room, or it will be a thing you didn’t say when they looked to you for the answer you did not yet know how to give.
It isn’t their fault, of course, it’s just how they were built. How most of us were built. The cravings for fast, easy, beautiful things to numb the pain. The way they never turn their heads these days, you know that wasn’t how they came. I once met a man who could turn his head clear all the way around like an owl; he could do it without getting twisted up at all it was nonsense and so frightening it was inspiring.
We were born one way but now we have become the raging discomfort of what they have impaled upon us. The way you speak, the way you think, the questions you do not have the guts to ask, how much of it is your own? What would you tell them if there were only five bodies in the streets? If there were five hundred thousand men, women and children of every race, color and creed. Would that change the depth of your message or just the size of the audience?
What builds us up tears us apart. What is walking toward us is walking toward walking away.
Here they come with their guns and their poetry. Here they come with their sunburns and cures for the common ignorance.
And here is you with your hands all on my early grave. Here is you with your tongue all down my throat. Here we stand face to face without one fucking single thing to say.
I’m not sure when I fell apart but I must have. Because everyone I meet is handing me shreds of things I do not ask for but they seem to think I need.
Every way I turn I’m kicking up pieces of whatever this is which has shattered itself to morph into me.
I welcome you reluctantly.
As we begin
I’m searching your eyes for the end
inside the intimacy of a single moment
one held apart from all the rest,
in the sudden clutch of fevered breath, you approach
my thoughts like a pale moonbreast,
beating steady, penetrating
my mercurial flesh.
Slow spread legs, wings bending low on a bluelagoon ledge
a string of evening windows, each a-glow.
Your mood alights upon my chest
the ache of desire is laid to rest
amid the currents on the breeze;
I carved our coordinates into the trees
but the nightwind sang with a stomach choked of sorrow
my love, my love, my love,
I didn’t want it to be like this
you hanging by your teeth from my breast
and my not wanting to kiss you.
How the being of neglect walks alone through the hills
black cloaks and woodland creatures falling all around
the birds have come to nest
the birds have come to die
for lack of air in my lungs.
I could watch you spinning for as long as it takes
to stand the earth still
and freeze the clouds overhead in place,
write to me of the darkness you see. I want
to read the words you choose.
I bathe in cool darkness,
shower and dress and tug at my
line my lips and my eyes and stain my cheeks
with the smut and the ink
of the darkness in which
we dare not between us