october 2008

none of them could even

it was a year ago, almost. exactly eleven months to this day.

you were so far away from me, but I could hear every word you said;
we were in the same room and I was in disbelief,
taking in every breath you let out in symbiotic processes
long documented among the archives of scholars;
if i had moved a little closer i might have tasted your sweat–
it might have dripped into my pores that i might have absorbed your essence forever
(but that is obsession and this is not obsession)

i remember the darkness around us.
i remember the lights.
i remember that you swayed
and you curved
and you wound
like Arizona had overtaken your motor neurons, and i–
i was completely still,
observing you,
absorbing you.

everyone else was exploding on the spot,
black stars on their last legs: vortexes,
waiting to suck out the last of your syllables
and stretch it forever to play and replay for their own audiences, but i
i held you still inside me, humming inside me

and to this day the vibrations wash me still



and should it raise prodigious ire
the mouth of profitable liar
mine, his wet autumnal eyes
alight with summer sunrise-

watch carefully, the oiled gears
turn between oddly minute ears:
the mind at work, a burning candle
whose high-flown flame too cold to handle
burns, deep in the sacred night
and crafts great farces of such might
the world comes sighing to its knees-
“give us more, oh darling, please”

Watch the silver tongue in motion,
saliva dilute the silver potion

and the end product of his ministrations
with his pen, we are honored to see:
another tapestry of lies which we call poetry

(confess unto his lover)


i want to be the hand on your forehead,
transmuting pleasant images through the semipermeable layers of epidermis
keeping me from touching you where i want to most,

to push without moving your sickness so it sweeps through you
and runs frightened out the soles of your feet–

instead i am your fever
and the sweat you soak your sheets in has done nothing to cool me down

shaft of sunlight, german word

only in rages, only in stupors (i am never)
only when the soft unfurling selflines created by the kind of ecstasy
you can grip in a palm is unwinding the coils in my spine
can i ever be honest, and it is taking every intricate layer of muscle tissue cooperating
to craft this evidence– that i am capable of truth at all.

i am turned inside out here,
no holds barred, the way i like to think i love,
and this hurts (it fucking hurts).

we aren’t even on the same wavelength now,
yet your currents are electrifying and frying my nerves.

when are you going to flip me over,
so that i can hide again?


on this early autumn morning,
i am rediscovering friction–
greeting the sun in a mist of giggles too easily defined
as the sort which carry bubbles of secret delight
(of which i have an abundance today).

this is a flagship freedom
which glimmers softly in the morning light:
i have never loved physics,
denim or my bare skin quite this much.