the downfall of the serial poet
he
skins soul and shins on
the sharp edge of a reality
in which he is
but a guest, where in one
drowning amber moment a
golden-skin-filtered finger brushes
hazily against un-
conscience: a heart
saying its
hands would kill
if they had the strength; instead
his thin wrists, tied
down to their bundle of bricks and
bruised dreams,
sink into spring’s
muddy riverbanks where
suddenly life is
existence
but not
existence
life.
future perfect, subjunctive
fey,
incomprehensible,
i stand alone on the edge of
disaster and skip
pebbles. just might have been
mistaken,
thought perhaps
i had a soul
mate, but i
am not who i
used to be, not yet
halfway there
jumping lightly over
the rocks at low tide i
can’t help
thinking that by
tomorrow’s
tomorrow there might be
nothing left except
ether and flame.
hope
maybe
when this still-beating thing
underneath my ribcage grows
roots enough to grab
onto something worth
grabbing; when those roots
turn tough enough to send
their snaking fibers back
up into its sagging walls; when
those slips of fiber become
ropes to bind and hold and
hang, then,
maybe,
a single bubble squeezed
from the microscopic cracks
between serum and soul will rise free
and from the depths of this chest
go whistling through windpipes and
saliva to form a solitary
syllable on tongue-whet lips:
……..
solitary, confinement
……
……
…….
…….
…….
……
……
…..
…….
…..
what color is your soul
when shadow ceases to exist?
who are you
locked in at night
behind the darkness
of your eyes?
are you even human?
every dignity gone,
all your dreams naked,
autumn branches
scratching at a bolted window.
the last question
they will ask you is
“If we have to use restraints,
should we call your family?”
last primeval answering cry from
deep in the forge-fires of
your heart, knowing:
there’s no one
you would want to tell.
_____
il mio cuore selvaggio/ my savage heart
breathes uncertainly,
each seething beat
an inscrutable master
dancing over the graves
of my ill-sung epics and
leading me on hands
and rug-burned knees
through sunken grassblades and
gravelled shag, leaving me
curled up and fetal in the center
of a white-sheeted bed
too large
for a single person,
too small to hold me
safe
from the nightmares of escape
that press into my back again
and again, fingertip-pulses
of flashing neon slipped
between shoulder blade and sinew,
laced tight into the wet hollows
of my soul,
promising.
out of sorts
i feel pale and
inconsequent,
missing the piece of my soul
i left last summer
on an island across
the ocean.
