when you ask my long face
– where to begin,
I don’t know;
Just now? Yesterday?
Nineteen ninety four?
the day I was born?
You’ve fallen perfect
composed in my sight
like a monumental piece of grain
a beautiful sage.
In my wicked greed, I want you to stay asleep.
From every direction I see,
every way I turn you,
you’re something I wanted, something I begged for
some day, some time,
down the line.
I can dazzle all the world’s love your way, but you won’t stay.
I know, that the thing that binds my sight
to you is your glorious flight.
You looking right through me
at something far,
somewhere I don’t belong.
It’s the only way.
So, my beauty, without me,
go sail away.
The way I’m sitting,
the bowl being off-centre on the table.
The bladder- it’s always half full, half empty,
half full, I forget.
The cat’s whiskers being glorious,
the water boiling,
the long dust of drafting all this on the keys again.
The tingles on my back,
the unwatered plant- it looks like a wretched desert,
the dry patch on the back of my throat,
the water being too hot.
The preoccupation with how often I urinate,
the post-urination chill up the spine.
The palm trees against the pale pink sky being too good to not photograph-
being too cliche to photograph, on the other hand.
How the page absorbs ink making blotches marking my hesitations.
The loneliness flickering in the light bulbs of the four a.m. train,
and the racket that it makes.
The situation of the world in general. A distant, worn out panic.
The horror of five a.m. and them waking up, to this, to make this.
This whole thing of being.
to look away from this thing-
this thing I don’t interrogate for honest words,
this thing I don’t want to see.
The fear of me,
The sun is burning anyway;
it doesn’t need more pain.
is hardly ever a bargain.
Everything hurts but tomorrow
when you like glossy covers
with pictures that cause a slow gnawing
from the heights of paradise complex.
as often as it wets our hearts
with soft clouds
dipped in orange dyed lagoon sunsets.
And we are left beating
with the fish washed fresh
off the warm waters
at some faraway paradise bay.
Things laid out carefully for the most important night of the year;
a private place hanging from the edge of an island,
a few heads that can talk and laugh,
a menu with options.
to fill up the holes between conversation
and light up the crystals lost in eyes.
it was the same.
In the morning between rocks, seashells, open bottles and sand
there were people broken
by the quiet horror of