making plans to drink too much

you read yourself in the gold-crusted words of narcissists; humming their benedictions with innocent submission to their cosmic missions of suicide; I can feel the world growing wide in your eyes; sense the way each bone in your body becomes a conductor for the will of the child’s mind; they taught you to seek a sanctuary in low lights and racing hearts, but they never thought you’d make it so far without a single word; now their words belong to you – you take them for yourself – you wear them like perfume; they cling to you, and you cling to me


pitchfork gag

upward; your name and my eyes train toward the stars – whole and wholly gone I can no more trace your trajectory than I can discern the daily patterns of the dead –

yet my darling, you live. i think you live. i pray you live. i know the facticity of where your feet have been, what your hands have touched, what your lips have curved upon – don’t try Marlboro Red’s, they have additives, and i hope you don’t come back with ashes under your tongue, my sweet –

but what of it? tell me, you can’t tell me, i don’t deserve to know the landscape which your inner-self surveys; i can’t catch the gleam of projected plans, contracted fears, fractured emotions in its unblinking eyes – do you blink, and savor the darkness? do you, love? what is there for you in the darkness but rest, the rest you awaken in the day

talk to me; share with me a token from your native land – a talisman, piecemeal, bargain price, factory-made, for i swear to you, i have never seen it or anything of its sort


by a train

it makes me laugh, I tap my foot and enamor myself with impressions of a young creature that fumbles about in a cage like something plucked from its native land and embellished with rich food and pet names –

there was a time when this idleness caused me to suffer; this stillness lead me to mourn.

all is grey, all is slanting upward, and the water and oil catch more of the sky than they do of the earth beneath it; and I blink, and I blink, until it has nearly met –

what of it? it strokes my face. what of them?

there is no answer on my lips