Friday, November 27, 2009

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

Wednesday, November 18, 2009


you walked upon
a hanging bridge
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
given the
proper dimensions
you will float
both here and there
in a sky falling
you will float
outside the vapid mist
a speck of matter
in the cosmic vacuum
following the arrows
north south east west
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
we slumber within our
lesions and dreams

Monday, November 9, 2009

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.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

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
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
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
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