ARIANE
come sweetly
It starts
The way
It ends—
Fingers of
Impossible light
Crawling
Over your
Face. In
Between—mind-
Less waiting.
Mouth gunk
Or a gunked
Up heart—
Going is just
Climbing
Back inside.
!
Jesus is dead, Marx is dead, Elvis is dead And I’m not feeling too good myself
—A T-SHIRT IN SANTA MONICA
being here
Listless blight, safe words, every little
Sound in the night is a gasp—bone tip
Blossoming through skin. It’s no
Bull, man. Anymore, we’re all winners
& afraid to pull these faces off.
Maple leaves & plastic bags somersault
Through the park. One cloud
Grips the moon. Call me anything
Before morning comes, little lover,
Because it’s true & doesn’t fucking matter.
Kill the lights. Feel the burn. Rev yourself
Up & sing along with the good thrum
Found in everything. Hang around
Until the end. Melt my ashes on your tongue.
all of the made roads
Choosing
My life, I drop
Quarters in
The slot
& select
The worst
Song on
The jukebox
& then sneak
Out to
Watch
Through the rain-
Streaked glass.
O feverish
Praise—I can
Feel night
Struggle
To lay
Back in
Its own dark.
way out west
A hard rain will show the secret
In the architecture of bones
Much better than sunlight believe me
Or fractures I promise you
So soaked T-shirts drip like a true skin
While we walk laughing
Down the beach & after the drops stop
Pocking the water the tricks
That play on the growing green then
Bluer waves O blackshark & tigerbelly
Out there Believe me How I wish
I could wrap everything I see
In cellophane & keep it forever in the freezer
This fizzing pier life Arches painted
In a crown of muscle men & clown faces
Red coral lips & russet mustaches
All the finest whisperings of deeper-than-just-flesh
Each sunset something out there
On the horizon looks like it’s waving
An arm going under & down Vanishing
Into the watery sweep & even in
The complete black after
Everything’s slipped from the world’s shelf
A sort of gravelly piano rails
Over the palm tree’s hidden speakers & though I know
Some things believe me
They are so few & stars are burning
Mouths in the sky Believe
Me & the desolation of legs outlined
By a wet blue skirt leave
Never enough time to explain
ghost in the latrine
If the choice between
The men’s & women’s
Restroom decides
Your identity, what does
The man playing air guitar
With a tennis racket
In front of the urinals
Have to do with Lacan?
I thought it was Larry Craig,
But he turned around & it was
Craig Mack that slapped me
