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There are many navigable ways into and through
the dark. It’s hard, however, getting out of it.
Sometimes you find a guide. Guides inside
the shadows aren’t too reliable, but sometimes
when you trust to luck, and your internal universe
aligns with his designs, he’ll take you on the ride
you didn’t know you wanted (fuck the consequences! –
that’s the prize) and then deliver you, albeit in
a different size, outside again. Sometimes you
survive, sometimes you don’t. One day you won’t.
.
My German father’s eyebrows
branched like Brezhnev’s,
sprang out in a mob
of angry arms, all angular
and seizing: flaming forest
full of Valkyries. When
he died, some idiot mortician
clipped them off his corpse.
Every lover I have ever won
has run a kindred course –
sizzling to numb.
What happened to the king?
What manner of a thing
did he become?
.
In nanoseconds-long interstices –
in brilliant colors (therefore) no-one sees –
the god assigned to batten
down the elegant and brutal hatches of Manhattan
and to flatten any hint of dullness
and refurbish every glint to fullness
takes great chunks of town
into his ambient renown
and – sweet and fleet – subjects them to the grace
of the enormity of his grand blast of glorious embrace
until each doubt in it has perished
and each lout in it feels cherished.
.
Devotional ceramic urn –
whose alchemy of parts
has set in porcelain the turn
of warring dying hearts –
immortalizing most the crack
which hurt the worst, on top:
the first betrayal, knife-in-back,
that made the loving stop.
Adore has burned into abhor:
there is no further chase;
yet here they are forevermore
in eye-to-eye embrace.
.
The head’s hegemony – is it the enemy?
Always thinking it is larger than it is
and taking charge as if it knew what
it was doing. Tiny slits of eyes pursuing
the familiar and eschewing the unknown
permit distorted shapes and tones and sizes
to invade the mind’s surmises, onto which
assumptions lard their grease so slickly
that the sickly thing the senses must
collectively become – attempting to report
through slime – seems hardly worth
the time a trillion synapses elapse to give it.
The head examines reason like a Lilliputian
king and tries to live it. Perhaps we should
look kindly on the little thing – forgive it,
.
She wanted to be sure you knew she saw you,
and though she may have seemed a frightening
phenomenon of air, she hoped she wouldn’t
scare you. She came to say she cared for
the inevitable dissolution of a moment –
that she was one, and you were too.
November’s soft dismemberment,
dissolving and absolving.
.
Colors do not care about each other.
They dance intransigently, sometimes
almost seeming to make love
but mostly not: the roasting pot
of oranges and ambers, rusts and reds
pours indiscriminately into shreds
of grey and beds of purples, browns
and blacks: devolving into autisms
of fading beiges, watery pea-greens
and other ashen hues, dull lacks:
blasted and abused by midnight blues
which lighten without warning into
robin’s egg. None beg for prominence
nor seem to need to star. Remarkable,
considering the miracle they are.
.
