Monday, April 14, 2014

adrift

your old syllables
sit like warm garlic on my tongue
warm garlic from the strip of green
underneath the concrete of my old window
are you too growing green?
the scent of you brushed against me
in the market place and I am too warm
too much skin and pavement and sound
pushing against me
where did the breeze get your smell?
it is too much to bear
this message from home
with no return address. 

the waiting void

The thought of your being
is a thing-dream
an imaginary item.
Some sort of wishlist
sits in the midst of
my pulse, and appetite,
and urges
hunger for
an unlocked door.
I hear echoes in songs
and stories and shadows.
They cascade across my skin
tumbling about my bones
swelling in my brain.
It makes no sense
this you-it-thing.
I am full enough already
with longing and wanting
and more than I can handle-
things I can touch and turn
and create. You seem still
some trick, a feint
inside myself to consume
selfhood and develop otherness
a reduction by production.
Yet, for all that, I balloon
with this hunger for growing
stretching and swelling
and cannot let it be.
The thought, though, of a
you-thing, an object-self
weighs on my mind



Past two.

I slide across the sheet into your skin
a surprise
the suddenness of stepping
up out of sand and onto stern
concrete beneath my summer feet.
I dig my toes into your warmth
looking for purchase
like a climber of some foreign hill
when you rumble, half asleep, a protest
but roll open to my arms
I am content
planting my breath along your neck
as a proper proprietary flag
and sinking myself into sleep.