On the day they dance-swirled Words w(h)ere meant less, less Last touch, last holds, last hand On the back slides, folds, holds Closer to lips to ear to whisper One last holder, hold ‘er, hold ere There: one step, swirl, step Said, hands made more And mouths err better.
I figure no space were to exist no I were to be drawn from this self. Between the drawn, enables a hole to encapsulate some thing that cannot be grasped. Some thing other, between the drawn, a remnant of an I no longer am – desire.
...then there is a way in diswaiting.
Dust some yellow sand covers,
here uncover bare bedding.
...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes,
under incidentally quilted blanket
wet as arid curves, as sounds.
...in a persistent pavement,
in a solemn unsuited promise,
some written words erase
some letters drip and soak
unto a perfuse miracle,
a dislocated split,
a letting go of...
A Letter
This letter will never be sent there’s no resending
nor ascending from the sands in which it drowns
scent soiled sheet in the soft desert sips
down its folded throat down its written
tongue won’t swallow dry as winds
slur over puff numb with its ink
drawn eies and sluing grains
and motes of dust for
all things that
crumble
grit.
I do not love. I do not love.
I do not love these things which love I ought
For love, in love, despaired my thoughts
And colored them unwise, and since
Descends my sense and bends to faults
Against the rhythm of my waltz,
So salts my pine an endless wince
And simmers so 's a sinner-wits
This sinner's soul-essence
That love in love un-ends.
I forget our little important things, like
the way you like your toast
(butter on one side, sugar sprinkled)
the way you like your coffee
(black, strong, half-filled cup, a drop of sweetener)
or the way you like your sex
(as hard as love, as sweet as figs).
I forget little unimportant things, such as
the movie we saw last night
(the one with DiCaprio and the cops)
the meeting we had with the doctor
(and you hate the doctors, in their white robes)
the dinner we had by the shore
(fat steaks grilled on a burning fire).
Maybe I forget them little things,
but, you know, when things are gone
they pass
From time to time, as
my sightless eyes witness
(I fall) and remember -
I remember my me.
There's no-here-point,
nor a true false-salvation
as a self-persuasion
of an identity, as
from this grace grave-
yard of eternal worship
rises an I, an I
now is me.
No-long-pride (lost its magic),
nor a sane self-redemption.
To the endless thoughts
of an endless nothing,
to the eternal bursting
of the finality of death:
This, is home.
I am lost for a while,
spread as butter over starlit night,
shying in the coal mine, where
the charcoal paints my face black.
I wonder if the melting color
defines my slouching thoughts,
or the frightened low crouching
behind the stern masking self.