a fragment before midnight

a fragment of your voice
fell behind my eyes
amethyst eyes
that hear like ears of flesh
it fell and lingered there
and with my eyes
amethyst eyes
that hear like ears of flesh
i heard you say
this is how i love you
i had not heard that part before
had not heard the how
i grasped with such speed like
trees racing
past my car with six windows
past my coach with six horses
racing and wanting to fly
on a tarmac of black and white
before midnight struck
and the pumpkin and mice appeared

but you said
forget this car and these windows
forget this coach and these horses
they are merely a pumpkin and mice
scurrying in a fairy tale of
uneven proportion
remember only this
these six words that will remain
this is how i love you
they are not six horses that
at midnight disappear
remember only this
these six words that will remain
this is how i love you
and brand them on my naked flesh
that, even if you, my princess,
should burn to cinders and
become stardust in the air
i, your prince,
shall have them yet

but i know the cinders possess
like ancient trees with twisted roots
and although we dream of
magic wands and golden nights
they will possess this time again

i am a mangled layer of skin
flat upon the tarmac of black and white
amethyst-eyed and berry-mouthed
like a silent-movie star
sleeping and dreaming
with my glass slipper
tucked beneath my head
sleeping and dreaming
by the crashed cars with
soaped-over windows and
six layers of fresh paint that
don't hide the dents outside
or the cinders within

i am a mangled sheet of vellum
flat upon the tarmac of black and white
underneath a dry sky that is you
and my dreams are my quill
drawing upon me
a catalogue of confetti
an inkblot of confusion
propelling me like a compulsion
into the darkness of
an unjeweled midnight
where an invisible wand strikes
and we all become
pumpkins and mice

conduit

you walked upon

a hanging bridge

narrowing

not only in your eyes

but also in mine

a matter of perception

a trick of the mind

coming closer to the end

the end of what

you asked

i said be watchful

mind your balance

your footing will fail

and

given the

proper dimensions

you will float

both here and there

in a sky falling

upwards

inwards

starless

moonless

you will float

outside the vapid mist

a speck of matter

in the cosmic vacuum

following the arrows

pointing

north south east west

pointing

everywhere

and nowhere at all

you say they say

the earth is shrinking

i say they say

the time is coming

when we will

froth and foam

bubble and bust

but we will not perceive

we are hostages of

mutilation and desire

and

we slumber within our

lesions and dreams

the next train

if i were to take a journey by train, suitcase in hand, and stop at station after destination after station, i would struggle with the burden of this suitcase, heavy and burdensome with my weights. i would stop at one station, a bone in my throat, asphyxiated, my feverish heart clamoring for someone to help with my suitcase, heavy and burdensome with my weights. and this with the mind of not knowing, really, if this someone will help if i ask, or if he will want something in return if he helps me. and this with the mind of not knowing, really, what my next destination will be, or why i am going there. 


i have traveled from mons to bruxelles to liège to köln, station after destination after station that smells of burned rubber and recycled human breath, against my desire, wearing my feelings like a string of scalpels around my neck, and seeing in their eyes her love is away for six months and she is dying inside, but saying it must be - this journey must be if i will find the chips missing from the mosaic. perhaps in the embrace of steam to my face as i sip an espresso in a sidewalk café. perhaps in my uneven walk up an uneven hill while, in the town below, the church bells toll for the dead. perhaps in a knowing bite on my thumb as i watch a child smile at her mother while the smiling is still innocent. yet i find myself stuck in köln on a rainy monday in this crowded station of glass and steel and peculiar geometry while the active crowds walk past me with static faces, their entropic intolerance for one another like expensive perfume, their waxy eyes branding disorder upon my screeching flesh. and i await the next train to take me to the next station, but with a primordial resistance, perhaps because i do not truly wish to find these chips missing from the mosaic. 


so i remain upon a bench of glass and steel etched with graffito after graffito by those seeking some form of commemoration - ich vermisse dich 13.05.07 and du bist mein engel. i sit with comatose body but zealous mind on this monday in köln, i too missing my angel, with the glacial rain shooting bullets onto the stone platform, slapping my face and drenching the suitcase that sits beside me, heavy and burdensome with my weights, while i allow train after train after train to pass me, though i have a calculated awareness that i cannot sit in this station forever pretending that i await the next train.

creator of illusion

see the imprint of my lips

upon this chalice

lips that harbored the bread

drank the wine

and became a mouth

a mouth that spoke

confessing transgression

seeking absolution

abandoning discretion

it spoke in jagged screams like fallen trees

murdered in jungles by inhuman mortals

and now

you

creator of illusion

with unquiet lips

the judas lips of

those who betray

those who pull hearts from open chests

and nail them bleeding to a wall
with elegant lies and chameleon kisses

you offer me your eucharist

your bread and wine

but

my wholesome spirit knows your evil mind

so your wine
before my lips can taste it

spills upon the floor

trickles and creeps like ignoble blood

and you

stomp through its puddles

in derision

desecration

your crisp and eager footsteps splitting the air

like communion wafers

masticated by impenitent sinners

and i

who can only betray you

in my imagination

will offer you a eucharist

inside my weeping heart

but know

that there is no absolution

for creators of illusion

and your lips

stained with the wine of betrayal

will never leave their imprint upon this chalice

will never be a mouth