march 2008

see you at the bitter end

it hurts you that you aren’t beautiful.
it kills me that you are.


Marcial: The Icarus Complex

the sun reminds me of you.
that is not to say that you light up my life– good god, no.
if anything you darken my doorstep, and blind me,
but you are like the sun: bold, bright and blazing
visible to everyone and flaunting your warm honey nakedness;
taunting, teasing, coaxing,
pleasing, beckoning– and utterly out of reach
(we all recall Icarus’ valiant attempt to answer you, love.
we have not forgotten).

far away;
casting shadows upon all that i thought i knew,
proving me wrong again and again, and oh I hate you for it.
(why the hellcan’t you let me rest in ignorance,
wrapped inside my nightfall?)

You piss me off–
you, the walking Helios
forever just beyond my insults,
my breathing praise,
my feeling
and burning me from the outside inward all the while.

keine Kinder hier

sir, he says, sir–
sir looks at him he says what do you want boy
boy says can i ask you something and sir says what do you want boy?

if i asked you to
……….boy hesitates, dot. dot. dot.
his heart is like wind in his ears, where did his pulse go?
he doesn’t remember. are those stars?

& silence, and breath,
& the iron clattering to the ground taste of tension
in mouths long used to silence.

well come on boy sir says, i ain’t got all day i got somewhere to go don’t waste my fuckin time, boy–

and boy’s eyes, these bright eyes like shivering quartz in the sidewalk beneath their feet suddenly sting very much he looks up and he says sir–
sir, if i asked…if i asked you to hold my hand…

(he’s whispering) would you…?

sir is very still.
sir is very quiet.
sir is very
(sir is actually the same age as boy but he never calls him by his name he calls him sir because sir doesn’t have a cock. sir makes sir feel like a real man.)
sir says, boy
boy says sir?

sir sticks out a very rough and time-worn hand and he says…

he says…

why the hell didn’t you ask me sooner?

keep breathing

more than anything
i want to reach behind my back,
remove the knife,

find the zipper and
p e e l it slowly
down the backs of my bowed legs–
to lay myself open;

raise my arms so that skin falls
around my feet and pools
and quietly step forward out of,

my fondest wish– my life’s dream has shriveled/diminished
to merely the meanest method of scrubbing away
the last traces of who i was during you:
erasing the me that you knew so the last line reads
like the person of whom you remained blissfully ignorant.

and i would kick away the skin you touched;
i would rewire the cells you affected
so that they knew nothing of electricity–
i would–i would…i would

oh, god, what have i done?

my fondest wish– my life’s dream has diminished/shriveled
to discovering the most astringent method of exfoliating your touch.

i would run on my tiptoes, eyes closed,
arms spread to fly:
i’d dive into the ocean and soar;

i would emerge as myself,
glued together with only hairline cracks
(as whole as i could manage)
and almost entirely my own

(but forever with the memory of your gaze on the back of my tongue)

letters from the fire (2007)

short Letter to Adolf Hitler:

if i were you
i imagine:
black and white colorless
image upon scene;
parading marauders and endless night screams
under cover of the law.

short Letter to Benito Mussolini:

if i were you
i imagine:
night-wrapped sentinels
marching ‘cross lives;
the country that sheds its own blood.

short Letter to Joseph Stalin

if i were you
i imagine:
frosty capped climbing
upon faces upturned,
supplicants supplicating.
a crumb, Patushka?

and now a word from our psychic, the famous Nev. A. Gotoamerica:

to our glorious President:

if i were you
i wonder…
where are you now?

use yer illusion

i wonder, at times, what it would mean
to be a leaf: clinging to my mother tree,
moved by only the wind,
charging solely because
it is my nature –and then–
maturing to sever myself,
gaining freedom of arbitrary flight:

growing up to bring the world nothing but beauty,
nothing but grace
nothing but poetry,
lifting high upon higher
and falling merely to piss off the 10-year-old kid
with his broken rake


a mountain range,
vast, imposing in its
cobalt cradle
snowcapped and kissing zeniths;

an oak tree, claws deep
in the breast of the earth,
rock steady

or perhaps,
my great-grandfather
gripping tight the steering wheel
of that great big tractor
tearing along the field
as he yells at Brandon and me
to get off the trailer
before we hurt ourselves–

these things and others
i would compare to my love for you