november 2008

you got me looking up

you know those state farm commercials?
well, this is mine.

you know that place where “i” meets the possibility of “we”?
i am so there.


one petal too many

i want to ask you something.

it has been millennium minutes,
an eternal second since your skin brushed hers
and took with it on moving backward
an imprint of the lyric-needles that, to this day,
she stitches her hopes together with.

when she weeps, the sound reminds me of cellos,
a drawn out moonlight sonata like beethoven never dreamed of,
but can you hear it when you’re the loom she weaves her thoughts on?

and when her fingers smooth the kink in your brow
do you ache with everything that she cannot say?

when your head is on her chest–
do you hear your name,n each pulsing beat?

i wonder.

it has been millennium seconds,
an eternal minute since her deeper surrender.

did you take the flag and wear it into the battle with yourself–
or did you leave it at her feet?

you (dumb monks and dumber angels)

you were like soft voices meant for no one’s ears
singing in my memory;
a lyric i can’t remember,
a melody i can’t forget.

you were the unwritten music
that i could not play.

every note that you did not sing
resonates in my bones and collects
like the calcium that moons itself in my fingernails:

you are the self-flagellator,
the modern-day, self-propelled Prometheus:
you are your own punisher, your own Zeus,
and I am far-off Olympia immovable–
or perhaps I am your cliff.

i could be nothing at all,
but we both know that i matter somewhere
(it’s only that i don’t want to be called self-centered, so i won’t admit it.)

bear with me–
i want you to hear this.

i want you to reassemble from your own ashes
and reform the pages you ripped in your furies to make tinder
for the fires of your personal hell
so i can thrust you forth like the new bible
to be worshipped underground–
don’t you get it?

i want you to be seen.

i want to shove you naked into the open
with your scars livid and your blood running hot to stain the flagstones,
to shine a mirror on your surface
so it blinds the people’s eyes to see you.

i want to run my teeth along your bruises;
i want to eat the shit you mire yourself in.
i want to beat the field of dead horses we’ve raised,
and blow their stench on the winds to the rest of the world we ignored for so long,
i want you to be seen.
i want everyone to know.

i want you to realize: you are my idol,
but not like the churches devise
(you are no flailing flamed jesus).

don’t be a martyr anymore.
don’t you get it? it’s over.
your cross is withering.

shh. listen.

open wide.
i want to trace your leaf patterns,
thrust your secrets high to the light of the sun
that I might prove its heat is no match for your own.

you want abuse? let me be the one to deliver.
give me your knife and I’ll rake its serrations along the liplines
you’ve written into yourself,
whisper all the lyrics you will not sing
to the shell of your ear–
would you cut it open for me,
your gilded lily,
your lotus pond,
your precious flower?

come on, darling.
you want this.
open wide, close your eyes ,
say you’ll learn to love me–

but i know you already do.

la belle mort: the muse

she walks like the sun melts from her cunt when she comes,
(and maybe it does) shouting to the skies when it tears her apart:
everybody’s got to know
she’s dying that beautiful death.

she writes like the muses make love to her mind
and perhaps they do,
making agonies of ecstasy by the letter
so her audience dies that beautiful death.

she smiles like the dawn pushes itself
through her teeth when she shouts,
and possibly it does– the colors around me are never as bright
as when her lips brush the sky,
dying that beautiful death
(it’s the lights around her head)

& her eyes like autumn,
beautiful murder–

and her lines unwinding along the frame of her body
like the fuckin’ sexiest canvas sprang
from her mother’s womb on the labor bed–

don’t you know, she can’t see it
but the whole goddamned universe unwound itself from her little finger
(fuck that big bang shit)!

and she can be modest if she wanna,
but when my turn comes I know who to pay my respects to
at the funeral of hearts (that goddess/murderess!).

all she has to do is write another poem and there I’ll go again,
dying that beautiful death.