Cry at the end of the Poem
words pile up in livingrooms on moondrunk streets in the tea of clouds days and wishes pass like wind over the closed eyes of the grasses
memory hands me this lamp a cup of coffee an avocado a dripping pear the cold orange of burnt ink from last winter's sun a tongue of ash pressed hard against my own
brief wind in the pines erases all thought snows disappear between coffee and nothingness flashbacks and eternity light gathers in old cups saffron fires of another dusk then women, their mouths, their clothing the scent of vodka and patchouli swallowed by the 4am streets ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I drool on stripped alphabets paragraphs of flesh images eat out images cold and empty as airlocks between motes where skin and words bond and fall from the morning into the drained blue pools of a million eyes
from this cesspool of spells, trash, and tropes a garden of stars and roses where I walk deranged and stupid chasing a piece of satin torn from the past a black dove caught in a cleft of snow only last evening the gold of willows was eternal
my tongue laps at tendrils of spit the perfume of violets I hobble through the sun's arcades following the faint shadows of white hot maps my bones thirst for the water of blank pages my hands cramp in a death grip around pens and ankles ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a dove coos in a nest of moons deer run across the graves of infants behind curtains of wax woodsmoke a line of trees the gasp of sex dies away Sunday dawns in lines of gold and steel
there is no me but a nothing I call that a robin sings then stops never there out beyond the moon now between rains at 5am crawling the edge of my skin
feathered sentences oracles of delusion uttered by the drunk the mad, the dying I cling to ledges of ice coronas of lipstick the remains of orgasm slipping into diminishing thoughts as the white silence of snow drifts against windowpanes like the souls of women ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ night trees their grey throats and traffic sounds rain turning slowly to sleet nothing rings true but the moment at the end of itself crows flying round and round the moon
dark brick under ghost lamps word on word breath on breath of blue flame images naked and smooth lips foaming with stars death blows to the heart of the known
clouds of sunset wine pools of stillness salt of solitude I drift in vessels of wishful thinking until I reach an impasse half asleep in the white caress of eros and the half remembered faceless ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ black solace of gutted alleys these harrowing days of Earth only a key of lace can unlock this gate to white fur, red lips my pen freezes in the heart of the poem the words are raw holes harsh and fragile as beauty on the floor convulsing
silence hardens into bird fragments, pieces of street lilac and cyanide linger river, green smoke the long hair of death rain the color of concrete on a grey cat's ghost I stare at long dead leaves drenched in the sweetness of skirts
white flames leap above the bleak hum of dawn inscribing flat stones with sentences of neon that cut the sky open to a new alphabet an unheard-of shadow music the wet hair of long journeys
I breathe in the air of pure dream and carry silence through the world passing out mirrors, crystals, silver cloaks and the burning honey of the impossible