‘Your mouth a little wound with a little reason to be / involved is why alienation is a body part, which moves / you to harshly ask if death really wanted what it wanted, / if its sole duty is to be observed all the time.’
Ache, Apple, Body, Imagination, Objects, Pacific Ocean, Poetry Tuesday
The best tragedies we know have
created influential lovers
only to transform them into
some persistent object. This apple
a golden kingdom. This apple has
some steer stars and odd fireflies
we have yet to see.
This apple is heroic
and I would like to believe
I will be saved.
I would like to believe in what
I believe in, the forbidden good,
its knife, your transformation.
I touch you, I bleed
and this world says that
is the only way it could
make sense with us, a physical
description. We help this
world form its reality
out of glistening fragments
of our body. Fissured tissues,
your silvery skin,
head as replica of Mars,
the best thing we got.
I have learned to leave
you in the kitchen,
sinking into a myth one day
will be called a sexless fruit. I will
leave this world of my flesh knowing
I have rewarded it with sharpness and
inimitable incisions I am to vanish
into. Knowing what you have
become, but, Great Object, what am I?
Waves of the Blue Ocean
A stone is rolling frontward as though to meet, finally, the man
who once had to be thrown by another man over the Pacific.
You are standing then swinging and you don’t know why
and you thinking of calmness, one pellucid portrait of a house
simply seen before its collapse, means you’ve been
somewhere and you like it there. That will not show up,
never will history be kind to you. Here the stringed windows
all cut in half, the flower vase holding a withering, hardened
froth of blood that has so long been squashed out from your
lover, absent as the heart of catastrophe. You know who
your lover has been is to suffer how present you are, how
identified. Your mouth a little wound with a little reason to be
involved is why alienation is a body part, which moves
you to harshly ask if death really wanted what it wanted,
if its sole duty is to be observed all the time. This is a
fleshing. This agony is your face, sensory and clueless.
Keep swinging. We are glad, brother, you are still alive.
Toward a Boat
The great object of the sea swims
to the shore but could not go on its own direction.
This is the last day ahead of
a promise to abolish its throat totally and something in this panic
has a house for us, planned in
private, no one witnessed. That house we need, dimensioned by grand
skills of desire, as enduring, as
transportable as fantasies, because we’re sent to live,
or so we’re told. The sky an artwork
and birds are shot to compose remorse. We’re devoured by this
landscape, sexed within, and the great
object of the sea still swimming, an illusion
it is that always finds us. Here,
we have no reason to invent bruise, it is pervasive, it is
the first year of our life. A man
came to greet us, O how we could not abandon the thought
that we’re strangely celebrated, precise,
yet we ran and closed all the rooms of wonderment, queer and bold,
so that he could be
the man forbidden to look for us. A proper name will tell you
where we swelled our bodies into
pinecones, everything that resembles a palpable with apex,
a point narrowed it could mean
final, everything that falls when brown and slight and once unthinkable.
You notice another man
is following you, a scent he is with unmistakable color, white, and
objective. Sorry, brother, we will
not tell you where we’re not imagined and why you’re anxious.
Your sun an egg yolk edged with blood
so the light that initiates, the light that elaborates
grasps wound before anything else.
You’ve known the facts before they’ve become
something more than memory. You see
what we painted, as if tentacles of jellyfish glided through
the canvass, dark blue and grey
that they make a single tint or exactitude when one knows enough
what’s not happening, giving energy
to what’s held by this entire work. If human, you keep it
like a question, snip it off until it speaks
what you want said, though better to say inconsequential
as love of a deadly matter, as isolated risk.
You cut the sensible parts, the nights we said
your fingers could scratch the colonized world
and find pleasure on it. You say human, what are you doing here
to a skull again after shutting
the lights and music and your optimal eyes. You take yourself
out from a tight jean and sit on the floor
naked, retrievable with cobwebbed goodness. After this
hour will say what our house, imaginary, destroys,
but we want to tell you it also is enabling like relegated language,
a weapon if you hold it right, like you,
your heart. The great object of the sea will have to swim again and
this leads to demise, intriguing
and hopeless with its depressive weight, its habitual
dithering, an entreaty it is that brings
back what the body is for, the importance of sacredness.
Brother, worthy as rupture,
we want to see you survive. Go ahead and don’t stop.