Untitled

Take my humility
Take the cankered poems of the suffering elite
Make me proud
Proud of failure
Make me proud of those I’ve hurt
Make me stand tall, breast out-right
For the cowardice that made me say nothing
In the presence of my own humiliation
Make me a fool for myself, for my own honor
Bring me to the brink of power
That asks power of me to make myself powerful
For the powerful, the ask for the give
The give that lets power slouch like a fucking coward, power-hungry and smoldering

Take my cowardice
Take my claims to appropriation of emotional goods
The things that bind me to a cycle of a lie-inducing truth
A binding agent cogent within a fermenting waste
Sing to me a hymn of my own debauchery
The thing that most encapsulates my trajectory
Of raucous self-flattery, of a bacchus pouring-out of ritual gorging
Take the choke-on-blood laughter of the swallowed knife joke –
The humor of dying ideals –
Take the memory of fatherlessness in a wasteland of utopia –
Trellised, many-tendriled,

And plant one seed.

Every song permits one sheer shaft of light
On a single degree
Of three hundred and sixty sides
Of one whole.
The godhead shaped like a geometric perfection
And each degree
The one single private, embarrassed feeling
Of a favorite song
Heard on the radio
Driving home, rainward
With my brother.
Years ago.

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Untitled

Maybe
The silence
Of no applause
For the subway singer
Speaks louder than feigned
Appreciation, than fetishized fawning:
The standing ovation of the deaf sheep herd.
Maybe true feeling is only met with silence, the silence
Of no return to the question of why the silence brings a silent feeling.
Like when the inner flame of thought is quelled by the outer frame of discursive judgment; the embarrassing lisp of the inner infinite first feeling; the apologetic laugh, crafted to avert the penetration of an eye; coital fumbling blocked by the self-preservation of an unknown inner kingdom.

Tornado (Joy)

We spent endless minutes in the basement
Our minds brimming with a joy
When the world was dusk yellow
The backyard sick with fever
Winds prophesying our immanent return
To unbridled joyful bodies tossed
Within the holy trinity of mindless rage
Of air become a vacuum
And my fingertips filled
With an inexpressible urge to run
Into the surging night
To greet its joy with my joy –

But one night
Our parents pulled us out of bed
Still asleep
And waited out the night below
In silence.

Westsider, Rare

The woman I loved
Chances to have drifted nearby
From across country;
Alights on a section of the city
Typically distant to me
But I happen to be there in evening
And see her photo on my phone,
A few blocks away in person
But still (safely) states away in heart.
I still proudly disbelieve in fate
But feel the irony that twists my heart
With thoughts of how we’re linked
And in the future, published,
I envision a woman reading these words –
Not her, someone else
Who I imagine myself feigning to love,
Imagine her reading and feeling sorrow
Because she never loved me in return.

Tuning Peg

I always see someone I think I know
But it turns into a different face.
Tell me –
Who did I see?
Did the face really turn
Casting uncertain quantum waves
Like a soggy blanket over my feelings
On a cold night, rain-swept and infinitesimal?

If I see you in so many faces,
Can’t you learn to see me too –
Anguished and searching all those eyes
For a semblance of someone I used to know?
Memory is not even a feeling
But a memory of a state of feeling,
An aborted daughter in the womb of childhood pain
Cut from limb to limb
But somehow still living.

Which face goes where?
Who places them like guitar strings
In their proper slot in a floating bridge?
O Floating World, over-full
Tune me tightly, like a lover
Until I snap from rage
Then turn again
And let your face be the one that I place there
Threading you through a bridge
Gently pulling you up and down
Smoothing out you’re trembling,
Wrapped in soggy night terrors,
Lost to the turning of eyes.

Pangensesis

In cryogenic sleep
for centuries
I wasted through space
motionless
emotionless
and that was paradise.
 

for seventy years
in a half-remembered dream
I walked on the earth
joyless
harmless
and that was Hades.
 

You, where will you walk?
How will you float?
Eager, wasted?
Alone, or in the host of Andromeda’s Angels?