Conjunctus

I

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.

II

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.

III

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?