Let Me
Let me
believe in heresy,
something to set me adrift.
Like an old bumblebee
recklessly diving into forget-me-nots.
In the golden stanza of my flight,
drowning out the refrain of death,
please mistake me for the sun,
chrysanthemums,
homely daisies,
wide-eyed dandelions.
This swollen dream
hums through your drawn-out heart.
How So, Lilacs?
Today,
one of the few Wikipedia entries with no discussion page,
I scroll through composers and writers—
especially Debussy.
His life, it seems,
was all “eight-year affairs” and “thrilling nine-year relationships.”
“Debussy’s life was rather turbulent,” it says.
“At eighteen, he began an eight-year affair
with Madame Blanche.”
My god, I’m so glad
I never had to call your cat a lovely lily.
Lilacs—that would raise suspicion.
How so, lilacs? Beware the plural.
I’d never say passionflower or sacred lotus.
Those are words—
words that never quite come full circle.
I’d never say anemone, acacia,
or peony. My god, what would I be
without a trace of presence of mind.
Take cover.
The words want to land
in pure singularity.
A Neighbor to All. A City in Ashes.
My tongue is the American flag.
The homeless paper is printed in a homeless tower.
Skyscrapers wait in herds,
like dominoes—where’s that sparrow?
We are bar snacks. Do I still need to explain that?
I have a sense of humor, but I’m weak for lyricism.
My best seduction trick is the anecdote.
My dental plaque glows in the dark.
Who feels bad for a lonely café?
Not Girlfriend-Man. Christmas lights!
Soon we’ll be wheeled to the pier arcade—no charge.
Homer had real talent.
Why does “Homerus” seem longer than “home run”?
“I’m skipping this one too, if that’s okay with everyone.”
Neighbors, huh. All day. Neighbors. Neighbors. Pretty cozy.
I’m good at saying “Well, well, well”
in a mocking tone.
Then falling off my stool.
Gnomon
Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt you.
It’s only lightning, darling—adolescent light.
On the street, in the woods,
supermarket or asylum—don’t be afraid,
it’s only lightning.
Don’t be afraid.
Look—I catch it with my face.
See, I dream of someone else
each time I flicker.
Don’t be afraid. Come to me,
come, let’s smoke a cigarette
or walk to the store.
Don’t be afraid. No one will notice.
It’s just the light
of the night shift. Come, darling.
People have no idea,
not the faintest clue
about the light,
or the end of its tunnel.
Come, take my hand—
dream of someone else.
Burning Swallow
Heisenberg was a lonely man.
“Here lies Werner Heisenberg… somewhere.”
On the knob of his skull
I’d sketch your face—like a police composite.
I’d name you guilty without blinking.
I’d pluck you from the blur of the crowd.
I’d split you in two,
to sip paraffin from the coconut-white wreck
of your body—mouth to rupture.
End of Line
The blinds shimmer.
Chalk-white Christ in Braille.
A neighbor to all. A city in ashes. An egg.
Can we still use metaphor after Nine Eleven?
Democracy needs a wheel clamp. Freedom
is a gimmick by bankrupt philosophers.
Wheels spin on.
Is war just the soul switching wheels?
Why am I scared of my keyboard?
A documentary on terrifying diseases,
Discovery Channel.
Sandwiches that, after two weeks,
still look exactly like sandwiches.
Vanity reigns. Cash flows. Guns get bored.
We shudder at the past through beautiful books.
I went to Bommel to see the skyscraper.
The Thing approached. I kicked three times,
with all my might—
but someone had built a bridge
between civilizations.
A short note to literary critics:
Get a job, asshole.
Happiness appears between the lines.
End of Line!