Check the thesaurus for my horoscope.
I’m an associate by guilt,
at the table,
bragging on about how cells lock down
the open frontier.
Wild West Maître D’ signals cryptic
(tap-te-tap tap-te-te-tap tap) to the
Underworld Boss for a dance
They strike me as the unruly sort
Oh, but your be stilled aerie becomes a gaseous
membrane; a monument to
distance of sanity. I force myself into the
water beads on my vodka tonic glass and
absorb the world.
Little eyes and thorny beaks
interrupt an otherwise pleasant
They are the shadows of a catastrophe.
They keep us ahead of the
“I think these crows here mate in a
Jupiterian orbit. If not, what would be
My hand is bloody and I forgot the name
of the waiter.
We partisan to a fault so to
jettison the rest to posterity.
I don’t know an early hour from a late
We were young.
We were young…
and the faces
A matter of hegemony.
Here it is one AM
and I hate the shape of
But at the beginning,
at that pink beginning
there was between us
a marginal trust
clung to cracks in the volcanic rock
at the edge of an organic
I won’t pretend.
Not with the waves and the
mist and the laughter
on the sage scented breeze.
It was too
delicate to pretend.
all indebted to us.
A lightsphere covers over the red.
We left only white
and oily, black mud.
Cover our daughter. Instill in her
a locust heart.
It is not a covenant we can make.
She in the den with rich mahogany eyes
reads Milton with distrust.
“How far is love?
Is it boundless as the green?” she asks,
and I am held breathless.
Captive and suffering.
“There is a danger in the silhouette, you see?
The sheer guise it represents,
the madness that’s found in the contours
of the body.
Contempt drives us, though. It is our one shared
virtue,” she laughs
while crossing the room, the light slowly failing
with each step
against her rising shadow.
Her arms are defenseless, and yet they respond
only with pearled indifference
to the slightest touch
of chill in the air.
She shifts the weight of her loneliness delicately
into me. She grows
as I diminish
I am the small god worthlessly seeking penance.
Fastened to the stone. Cast into the dark under-
of a deprived world.
She devours my restraints.
Out and beyond the waking sun drifts blind.
The countryside falls into ruin.
If we could disguise our minds
crimson dark and rest under
the emotional imbalance it
may afford, what then?
And what now?
I don’t bring salvation. Only
interruptions between waves
Bring us together.
Where white streets bleed into
the yellow sky
I overhear a lover’s confession, shared
tenderly, secretly on
angels breath, and feel my flesh crawl.
The prophecy of rain beats into us. It’s
life attested. A crawling illusion
sundered, seeping into cracks
of adopted skin.
Electric winds blow.
Trace lines of communication. To
remain oblivious, we speak.
Words desperately littered into instruments
of our own abandonment. But
let’s go. Let’s watch as the oregano blooms
in the garden.
Our feet cooled by bare stones.
I don’t answer the door. It’s an instinctive habit. Blake is at The Polis. He goes there for the fountains.
There is a disturbed young man who visits me in the afternoons. He likes to talk politics. It might be him. At the door I mean. But I can’t risk it.
I look at the magazine. It is next to the knife I used to cut my orange for breakfast. I stare at it and think of the ballet I attended the other night (and how the light in the car didn’t work so I couldn’t find my glasses).
There is Circular Logic. It only asks that I am obedient. It says if I obey then maybe. Maybe. Like a mom would when negotiating with her child a toy settlement. If he should be a good boy. For just a little bit at least okay. Just be a good boy.
I go to the bathroom medicine cabinet to get the rest of my whisky. There is another knock on the door and I get the same feeling that I have anytime someone responds to me.
I open my mouth to try to answer. Something like Go Away. Or Just Come In Already The Damn Thing Is Unlocked. But nothing comes out. So I pour my whisky sit on the toilet and drink instead.
Out the window there are some birds and electrical wires. The two are not connected. The birds are flying. They remind me of a girl at work who sometimes appears in the break room when I am there. She is cute. We have never spoken.
Finishing my drink I get up and get another and go to the front door and look out the peep-hole. There is no one there. I open the door to air out the house.
People are talking nearby. I can’t hear what they say. Circular Logic urges me to play Tony Bennett. I do though I don’t like him too much and lounge on the couch.
There was a story of aliens way out in space that I think about who invented an impulse drive that allowed them to be in two places at once. That way they did not have to leave their loved ones. I believe NPR reported it.
The young man disturbed of politics comes by and asks if he can come in. I don’t answer and just close my eyes. Circular Logic says I am being rude but I put on Tony Bennett for it so it doesn’t press the issue.
Disturbed comes in and takes one of my cigarettes. He is on a tear about the president. Or maybe on the national parks. It is kind of hard to follow what with Mr. Tony crooning and my general lack of interest. I fall asleep in hopes to avoid nausea. Blake should be back soon and he can sort everything out. He is always refreshed after visiting the fountains.
She finds pleasure in how sharp
the thorns are,
in the way they tentatively wrap
and cling into her skin in ever
gentle, shallow piercings.
The colossus screams
in the frenzy of his midnight delusion.
They met in an emancipated hostel overlooking
the blue pink valley.
She into fashion design
and her an unpublished writer
and each a captive second
in the soul of the other.
The one had a meticulous richness
that she found
seasonally contrasted her.
“But then it was always only but a matter of nature,”
she said to her one evening
as the robin’s wavering song drowned
in the currents of the river below.
“So it is fixed?”
“And there is nothing that can be done?”
She set a gaze upon her leather brown shoes
and felt uncomfortable.
Time had imposed itself on them
and the moon forced her to sit upright.
A timid light was cast over her
that she mistakenly
Under the bright day the colossus sleeps.
She marvels at the stinging red bruises
all over her body.
The small rails of blood bring an
Sing me soft sweet.
Oh your barbed transgressions,
your tenderly beautiful sins.
A seductive disenchantment
to pause our suffering.
halos of the angelic
host decorate your gown.
Refrain your song
of breathless hills wintered.
The night, the dawn,
lose all justification.
The peace, wound into the vacancy
of a mutilated
But we are allotted time.
It is the difference in our moods
that sets the pace.