[video]
iwent out to beg some passion
from apathetic teens, stroking phones
the easy lust, the easy bored look
of vacant and beautiful women
the entitled, talking sums
talking annoyances
smiling while they said i.m sorry
so it doesn.t mean a thing
icame back in with a hungry pocket
ithought about ancient sweating romans
stalking the catacombs
the centuries they wouldn.t see
the weight of the laurels and roses
that kept them warring
in the car iturn over
to the classic music station
it ghosts up with the traffic
it beautifies the pace of getting through
it makes me think of a dream she told me about
just before she left for the last time
about a city where they used ‘belov.d’
where all fathers watched their children in the yards
iwalked into a gas station mid-symphony
achy from the separation
inside a foreign voice is talking slow english
there.s been a spill, an apology
an angry look from the cashier
a cost that must be paid now
the man with the mop
makes small work of the red puddle
he must.ve cleared the glass already
he stays busy at the ground
by the time i’m checking out he’s started to whistle
on the last leg home
the music stops
they’re talking about a one-armed composer
and iwonder where she is these days
because this is the place
where the janitors
know the world best
“and the streets swallowed it up like a commonplace lament.” — robertobolaño/2666
lust
hope
a g e s ago…
the streetlights are blooms collecting departed
and sometimes ithink the city is a woman
crying or about to
or holding in a laugh
or being whispered to between the thighs, and blushing
and night is always the hand at her mouth
while her head is turned
but sometimes ithink the city is a man in love
and he.s an american kind of lonely
surrounded and seen straight through
collecting vacancies at monotonous hotels
beside the highways
the night is always a woman who can.t stay
the a.m. bargains through
the beggars they go on begging
the pretty girls show their skin
the angry boys keep their faces stoned
idon’t have beauty for any of them
and soon i.ll run out of ways to say
i.m sorry
i.m not lost
but i.m in lost country
cars pass by
some too quickly
hands come together
or get tired of the sweat
and move on at the waist
ithink all cities are ghosts
ithink the night is how we keep them
up into the a.m.
again
i.m thinking about the flesh of books
i.m thinking about solitary violence
blue violence like a blue dress
with one strap hanging loose at the arm
i.m thinking about a black.heart.tattoo
on your hip
just above a secret
i.m thinking about the lines that fill them all
because i’m caught there
the lines that give them shape to haunt
that keep me searching faces on the streets
that keep the word ‘her’ in my mouth
on the tongue
at the part closest to the teeth
i.m thinking about a softer nudity
the form carved from the sheet
there.s a bottle between my knees
half drunk, like me
i.m watching you ghost across the floor
i.m watching you walk circles in the room
to keep from laying down
iwatch you fight so hard
to keep away from touch that craves you most
iwatch you stop by the window
because you.re out there somewhere
and you.re waiting
and you know it
and you know it.s me that.s kept you up again
you take a drink
you move toward sleep
you sit down next to me and smile
i’ll never surrender, you say
then move the other strap off your shoulder
the dawn comes on
like slow sex
aching toward a solitude that.s absolute
and the mystery
that keeps me moving into you
iache into afternoons
sometimes mornings
the way iimagine the great men do
but really i.m just lonely
in the slanted light of the kitchen
the heart of it is iused to love
with a butterfly in the ribcage and a dopey grin
redeemed and adrift. like sunrises
or a kiss where tongues meet
iused to give more than ihad
iused to give often
but idon.t move that way anymore
my hands don.t
they.re at my face most of the time now and they.re empty
and they.re empty but the knuckles don.t get scraped near as much
so iguess this is what they call happiness beginning
here with my fingers not throbbing
because they don.t get near slamming doors
or smiles gone hungry
just dead.bolt.locks and cycling damp bathroom towels
radio buttons that chase the mood of a city
and sometimes mine
ithink about going out
outside
into the white humidity
for some sign you.ve been here while iturned in the bed upstairs
arriving and dissolving
the heart of it is
gone is an emotion
a ghost
like heavy.hungry.heart is an emotion
and you and i we.ve had them both
but keep moving somehow
and always apart
the heart of it is istumble from room to room
i.m looking for you everywhere
with orphan devotion
with a pen in my hand that won.t let it shake
the heart of it is
after you
the lines iwrite at night
won.t save me in the daytime
on a porch flowered in heat
with no clear signs of a passing
ikeep my heart on the highest shelf
it says, ‘precarious’
but knows it won’t move away from the ledge
iforget to keep an eye on it and it whistles
plays the charm up for the brown eyes of the brown girls
keeps the brown girls laughing
isay, ‘ican’t leave you alone for a second
here you are at it again
bruising my chest from the inside’
but ican’t stay mad at him, watching him fidget
watching him pulling at his shirt because it’s a little too tight
‘okay, one more, but iwarn you
i’m leaving you behind to wither when it all goes wrong’
it’s an old game we play, him smiling
pretending that there’s steel or a force field
that keeps him away from harm
in his blood somewhere maybe
like a blessed and lucky virus
and me, pocketing the glue without him knowing
for when he forgets the word ‘precarious’