Hide your head in the fridge because you’re in for some merciless chaos raining down from the sky.
This Vulcan fire cares nothing for your job or your health or your plans or the commitments you’re about to leave behind. Love is a gibbous ape scraping his claws across the chalkboard of your rational mind, his creamnut teeth mash through the pulpy coronary fruit of your loins, his swaying arms knock all the shit off all the shelves his fists delve into your sleepy smile, and while you dream of distant starstruck eyes his kneecap is boning you awake and you take it.
Love is coming.
His drool splashes acidic on the earth to bring forth hypnotic flowers. His tongue stretches on for miles. He licks a foot and sticks it to your face and it smells like the childhood you never had.
He says, “Hey, it’s not that bad, You’re still in control. You’re the boss. It’s not like you’re in for the loss of every reasonable thought and sound decision, I’m just gonna make a slight incision right here next to this ventricle, then inject a mild dose of his or her saliva. Odds are good that you’ll survive until the DNA unfolds and every thought you used to think you owned will take on the hue and luster of her hair, mixed to a soundtrack of her softest secret moans, while something like her scent keeps drifting in, and if you’re lucky it’s over before it begins.
Kill yourself now,” says the ape.
But you think this time there’s a fighting chance. Go ahead and start running, The ape prefers a moving target.
Love is coming. And there’s nothing you can do but hang onto your rocks, see if you can outlast the screaming fits and torrential bliss. You are in his cage and the ape is flipping through the pages of a book of poems. The door isn’t locked, in fact it’s open wide yet you stay huddled in the straw, eyelids on fire, dreaming of a time when you weren’t so unbearably happy.
They say Omar still haunts these cobbled streets, with shotgun bent beside his hobbled limp; for that he dared to love and only briefest moments to possess, the bitter sting of night from pavement’s heat, to his long-tempered cold redress.
Where Swearengen’s curse still echoes on dark roads from dirt to blackened tar, solidifying passage from the vagrant to his host; that justice begs the unjust do his worst until one holy bullet hails his hearse and leaves our pulses satisfied.
From troubled Atreus to Tony’s Bada Bing, From Holmes to House where lonely minds solve pathogenic crimes, From Yoric’s bones to Fisher’s pale unrest, the blood of kings and peasants uncorks its endless flow beyond new Rome into her dusty bowl and arthritic carnival.
So long as Able’s ghost pursues, in forms as shapeless as the night, where man will take up words against arms as muscle swells within its skin to flesh out passages that fevered muses write, and take a stranger sideways stage— these dancing screens of light.
I see her in the Blackfoot as the road curves away from the bow of the river, her hair a dark drift flowing below the surface and just above the rocks.
She is no Ophelia; she inhales the current, refusing to die, adapting to the fickle sculpting flow of time where encroaching pines construct her warrior spine, and constrict the alpine slope of her skin. The collaboration of fallen trees explains the ancient tangle of her love with gentle humor, where the shallows belie reflections across a plummeting core,
and as her fingers drape the embankment without resistance, she inches her way toward the distant dissolution of the sea.
what the hell is going on inside these infernos of the feminine? What neutron scorches their inner coal? How do they move through the streets with such containment, such grace, when all along the atom is split.
You are brazen terrifying sigils of the melting poles, your rage like swarms of bees, your love the honey on their wings.
How you bear the ageless night within your eyes, and until sunrise mounts a wicked smile of gentle ragged reckoning you will not cease this struggle. I shall never believe you exist; you are too severe, too perfect, too vibrant to be matter,
too supple to be spirit. You are not of this or any earth, you are all the miracles that ever were or will be,
and when the universe strains of heat death it will be because you have gone elsewhere alone together pealing back sound.
You have to talk louder or your voice will not carry over the next fifty years.
You have to talk louder.
You have to buy a ticket and walk through the gates; You have to stop wondering if you’ll ever come back, You will never come back.
You have to close your account. Stop pretending you aren’t going to die. You are going to die tomorrow, You are going to die a hundred years from now,
You are going to live forever submerged in an embryonic biotech brainflower replicating itself eternally on a matrix of fire,
and then you are going to die.
You have to talk louder or your voice will not stick to the walls Your lungs must be a caldera, your throat a minaret. Train your tongue to handle fifty million volts. Your lips are not designed to stop your voice, your teeth are tectonic plates so talk louder.
You have to throw away that box of things you never use, You will never use them.
You have to stop trying to say something new;
Everything has been said, but not everything has been said aloud. Everything has been painted, but not everything’s been painted on.
You have to whisper if you want to talk louder in a loud world. You have to narrow your eyes and cut off your legs, and bind your entrails and tear out your eyes, and swallow your tongue and crawl to the top of the sky and stop.
You have to stop waiting. Stop reading. Don’t finish this poem. Close the book, close your eyes, close your door, break your computer, burn your house down, shut your mouth and scream.
You are what you’ve been waiting for.
You have to take off all of your clothes and all of your skin and all of your thoughts until you are nothing but voice crying out to the wilderness, until even your echoes are asteroids plunging into the thermite of the ear.
You have to stop putting it off until you have something to say; You will never have something to say. Not until you talk louder, not until you’ve healed the deaf, not until they are all staring at you, and you are frozen in terror before the arching moon with your tongue in the sand and the storm in your hair, and the flush of your blood moored on the beach where the bones of your jaw unhinge.
You have to make them want to kill you. You have to make them want to shut you up.
I am a giant in the perfect center of many round and far off tiny kingdoms.
There upon the singing hills a forest meadow beckons with its trees like tiny quills; and down along the path I see a dwindling lane to tiny things that draw me on like tiny wings to threads of light and little crowds where thimbles shroud pin cushion trees.
And with each step I take toward the tiny kingdom’s nearer shore distance shrinks but objects grow, ‘til further down the lane at last arriving, I turn to find the place where I first stood is now that same small fairy wood; and all around me sizes match those of the world from whence I hatched.
How was I fooled in travel swayed? Did I shrink along my way? Or did I grow and leave behind a tiny land, a tiny mind.