this is not going to end well for anyone;
or this could end beautifully and i would never know.
when you keep your eyes on the peaks of glaciers
your feet always slide—when you look down you lose sight
of the apex. there’s only one thing that keeps me aching
for deepness and sea vents spewing hot air making a bath
from the darkest ocean depth; and i keep the sunlight on me
so the simplicity sears my skin, it keeps me jumping
and keeps me shaking rightly. only one man can save us
from the wretched finale that we oversee when our pencils snap
when we press too hard on cosine graphs—nothing really makes sense
to me at least unless it’s in a straight line across the page
and i can see a beginning and an end. when maggots are born
they eat away their homes, the keep gnawing until the breach
the gap between alive and dead: what most people call sleep.
i can feel birdsongs in the air and i must say they sound so full
of themselves—how they can echo, resonate through leaves
and over branches and i wish i could somehow sing so well
that it makes me purities sink to the bottom of a bucket
used to collect sap from the trees. i am thick somehow
with motor oil as i sip on plastic acid. watches are such lovely things
when they tick away to keep the sun in line with what our eyes
need from us, what they crave as the horizon becomes that shade
of deadly pink and when orange swirls melt above the ground,
onto the sidewalk, the beaten path of this wasteland still churning
below my feet when i walk through the terminals
made by hanging boughs and the greying sky. the earth collides
with the phases of the moon to make the rise and fall
of seamless tides—there is a mechanism behind it all:
there is someone turning a crank the keeps us up and down,
smooth as the day rises, falls, darkness becomes safe
like the warm coddling of my mother’s thin arms.
lest i forget: lest i keep the currents spinning as thermals above
carry it all upward—if i could see a mountain range i would look away
because snow is blinding when it’s off of your tongue
and the angels you make from it disappear every spring:
how droll that the season of life ends the immortals’.
i play backgammon like i have no control—one is one, one and one
is one, but two is four and i can’t manage all of this splitting, budding
that reminds me of coral reefs underneath tropical settings.
white keeps me standing as i am: black makes me move faster
like i have everywhere else to go, through i cannot see and i cannot be
ready, able, prepared, alive for the plight that i undertake with each
final flip, twist, and spin—i am no acrobat but i can sure swing, baby.
would you like a cup of tea for your throat? would you like
a shepherd to hook you by your neck and take you where
he wants you to go? would you want a harvest moon to make you harvest
when your knees can give out at any time? is it worth the sugar
and gluten to make yourself plump for a lost sake?