DRIFTING
There is
an emptiness
only found amidst
three hours of sleep, silence
beyond the stream —
bodily facts
become silhouetted
through the submerged
communication cables
locating point
to counterpoint. You
red faced
and wailing
with the lost
weight
in the ossified language habits
adopted through
reliction
and withdrawal.
Disproportionately leaning
on the meaning
reviled
beyond a measured decorum
in tableware
and speech;
held aloft
as something
irrationally
obtained
but not yet accommodated for
as we discover
depth in the
chart
now
used as guide. Continuous is
the defined
condition
immaterial to sleep
yet holding firm in the
currents of reference
and gravitation.
AFTER SONATA
Home is something
we name
but can never feel
as the word discarnate
even in definition
leads to a recitation
within ourselves. The first time
we fucked
it was mid afternoon
with the blinds wide open,
neither caring
atop the ripped sheets
which we tore further,
with a belief in provincials
regarding who
could still be watching—
but that negation is all yours.
Hell or heaven both,
misery ends in a modernist
position outside of what we
were taught on Sundays
with a cricked flower
and a cracked window
that still persists—protective
ultimately
while I can’t be
ahhh no longer.
The spiritual was internal
as strawberries
became our emancipation—
deference still maintaining;
the seeds spilling out
never losing their juicy stauros.
Here I lie,
sweating like August
with you leaning over my
porch railing
as I ride off on my
bike
looking for a reprieve;
a breath
of that subtle Arizona air
I’ve heard so much about
and wish to lose you
so much further in.
