1. |
I. Gethsemane, next day.
01:30
|
|
||
|
There was a glass house.
Perched on the roof was an iron bird.
Dwelling within was a man dressed in neon bulbs.
Your hands (O how alive)
shined like gold should.
Your painted face mouthing words
as transient as chalk on wood.
O black hole,
between your dissenting lips,
And how you moved!
Hands like canes of the blind,
feet like Jazz without time.
Those neon bulbs, how they shined!
|
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2. |
|
|||
|
Weeks later.
Diving before dreaming.
Sinking between white sheets.
My eyes no longer bright.
I kissed myself.
Holding back my father’s beguiled words.
He told of Evil Kenievel
while my teeth rotted in my careless head.
men without fate
Now my nearsighted eyes close;
I am the age of my mother
when my older sister breathed her first breath.
Too young to know.
How I am that man becoming an armchair—
skin stretched to bone—
the floral print: dyed ash of the dead greats—
their graves screaming
for the life of a new soul,
their tongues hardened
to the words I speak.
How a city roars
while I am back roads
with high beams in my eyes,
set under streaming lights
tinseled across the night’s sky,
summer sweating my bones dry,
and home in the dull eyes
of the bodies laying next to mine—
how alive, O how alive.
|
||||
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