Aerial Views of the City
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Brother, the bus ticket is fading and the night is bestial. In my hand the beer bottle breaks, taking my blood to heaven. There is pretty sunshine there, even the negative shimmers in quick gold, the gold coming from so many dreams. The boy who resembles my father. He draws a face–it’s open, it’s mine. I confess: I think that we have been holding hands all along. Let us go sit. Tonight, the elephants leave the story, the record-players leave the sky. |
Time, it’s time. We left elaborate instructions for them. The car on the edge of a quarry, the keys inside. The swimmer, underwater. And this poor fellow on the bridge, lying. He has a lava future to sell. A Mesozoic. Paleolithic. Hiding under the lizard: lizard-skin, lizard- pelt, lizard-penis. He cannot picture the exact moment, exactly locate the moment she drops her shawl for the dandelion, for the road. But he says the water is spotted with dark berries, with thorns. |
My Life with Faye Dunaway
After Prayer, the Psalmist Refuses to Get Up
forever? Someone comes in with
claws. I hold its–his-or-her–
face in my hand. But I don’t
see the face. I don’t know it. By now, I am
waltzing out a window, I am
confused over the hand
turned down, turned around and around
a few times around the twine.
(What can I say to you when you don’t come?)
Caesar at his most honest (it is said)
cleared his throat, then executed every tenth man.
The voice of Caesar is like sheet music.
–I fear it.
The voice of David is weary.
It is like a child that you have to gather up.
It fills streams.
Are you that vessel
I drew my lewd face over
and haven’t risen from?
Elbow Grease
have I wanted you less? I know a time.
I had gotten inside the
electricity and was living in Des Moines.
It was the model’s house.
She kept 58 pairs of shoes in the bathroom,
and stirrups.
I wore a sheepskin condom.
I had a pair of soft moccasins that I
loved to hear on the parquet.
Would you like some water? I’ll get it.
One day, we cleaned her tub. I said, “Pretty,
do those knobs look like crosses to you,
they look like X’s, to me.”
We argued.
That was my greatest mistake
so far.
Eroticism
A bit of perfection, a bit of loss.
A stir of everything, a little less usual.
Even moreso.
The sun is black. Your body is wild leaves.
Where have you put the mops?
This world is a mess.
I don’t think I will know when you wake up.
When?
Another door into the fire.