ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
CalibanThey say this placeis the brothelof my thoughts -dirty gods and vacant wombs,something uncleanleft at the top of these stairs,but forgotten when the world skips a beatand light crawls its wayto the bottom.I watch what movesfrom the window -that brave new world -and know I am piecemeal,unmade and too rough to the touch,my kiss an unborn thing.I sucked from my mother's teatdelicious malcontentsour as summer nettlesto be my wormwood,bereft of fine mannersor a back to hang them on.But all is not as it seems.I only play the monsterwhen the crowd demands blood,for my back breakslike any other man,my visage worthy of grace;and I can feel my thoughts soarthe deft sparks of springlonging to be uncagedwhen beauty comes unbiddenand my sullen hideshall turn like the worms in Juneinto something glorious.
WitchcraftCall me Sarahwas all she saidand I had the uncomfortablefeeling of being haunted.I let her legsand red nailsdo the talking -stories I grew upnot believing in,silver spoons and moonshung so lowI could taste them,and autumn lostbetween her shoulders.I never said the right wordsand night retreatedwhen she turned her headand smiled.We let the candles burn -rich foliage of airand starsthe only traces left.
RustThe dwelling rustof Wednesdayswells this hollow gardenand somewhere in the yarda tire swing goes flatagainst the skyline.It chokes the autumn lightleft hidingin the silo,drowning outthe crush ofmums and ragged berriesIt bubbles in the percolatorsteeping still lifein the caulof early morning -the red-brown crumbsof breakfast toast and jamgrowing ghosts uponthe silverwareAnd deep insideI still hear you waking upthe soft saluteof morning voicesstirring the windoutside my window.
SeptemberThe summer was so hotthe dogs stuck to the sidewalkswith the newspapersand the black metal canseveryone left waiting on the curb.You could smell itin the glass pitcherson table tops,and the sheets that neverdried on the clothes lines;the canvas beach bagsmothers dragged wearilyacross the sandand the ice cream trucksmelting across the highways.Children felt it openup the windows at nightand find a cornerof the bed to smother,while fathers baited it on hooksor mowed it downin flat, dry stripesas if begging each otherto escape.And the crickets just hummedbeneath the corn silkand the dry mouthof August,daring the cats to playhide and seek -searching for September.
War and CancerI want to go backand meet us one more time,before the war and the cancertook up so much of the day -before my father could no longerremember what the presentwas supposed to meanand your mothercould still get dressedwithout losing her way.I want to knowwhat it felt liketo board a planeto somewhere hiddenand not careif our names and facesbecame lost;to walk as longas we wantedwithout the sun and mooncreating an argument.I want to feel youroll into my armswhere I forgot to cut the grassand you did notwater the flowers;to hear youwatching the cardinalsunearth the spring.And to know once againhow this placebetween usstarted becoming new.
OrchestraFour a.m is uneasy -time purloined and lefthanging on the bed posts.You said I crowd your sleep,feet and hands slipping cotton,pulling dreams in paper streamslike the nest of waspsgrowing restless in the tree.Your legs make room for me,for the sound of weatherhappening on the roof,and warm the space above us,setting fire to the drapes again.Just let me feel your claviclepress under my hipswhere daylight squeezes inand hinges us.So we both can waken slowly,you know, like kids in summerwho long for everything to never endand the sky to be an orchestra
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)Genesis:A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,and your satellites in relapse all bending,and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck sayingsurvive yourself like you've survived me;saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,always,and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.And then what unconquerable continents,what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
DriftwoodDriftwood -skeleton mawwraps talon-likearound the dawnas if beggingfor a favor,so smooth and sharpworn bare by August -a mermaid's ribrubs salt from sand,the battering lilt of seagullsbeating timeagainst the summer sun.