1. SITUATIONAL
In the sky,
the aerial attack
of you with him –
something shiny on the
avenue —
you see he could not be
but
by his glance,
called woman
can you emerge completely unharmed?
lie back
shadows are swaying
dust is on the rise
the air will tear your heart out
don’t you feel it beginning?
glance hissing
something other than
happy ever after –
gripping a piece of paper,
staring deep into it –
just a poem
and I’m no longer married to it –
I’m disappearing –
I’ve been taken in –
by a tunnel,
by a lake,
by poison,
by the professor of astronomy
who raises his eyebrows
in the direction of the stars –
yet there’s a presence in me
that pulling together
all sides –
I remember
rubble and hissing
and this great urge to remain.
2. A WOULD-BE LOTHARIO
always a little on fire
and my loins to answer to
always seeing another's eyes, nose, mouth –
anything that can spill,
but never the backbones of real life,
arranged in shapes and years,
enough to have me buzzing,
thumping like a bumpy train ride –
and then there’s love –
body parts
by the most languorous indirect route –
forget about it!
once again,
the chatter of nearby flesh
is a church under construction,
crackling thighs and dresses
that could split anywhere,
creatures of imperfect camouflage,
I’m as moist
as a dandelion in April –
(crowds of people,
dry and vapid,
shifting chairs)
and then there’s the face
in the darkest thunderhead,
the double agent,
the glance taking leave of its liquid,
with gargoyles in suits
swapping fingers –
I’m trying to get out from under my history,
gleaming through whichever door opens,
hiding my layers of ghosts,
looking for words to defend the stain on my pants,
holding myself for the moment
but eager to let go
disguising the past,
building up a reservoir of suggestions,
milling in a world of shapes
and expressions,
hoping something forgotten
will suddenly remember me,
each drop of alcohol
leading me by the shaky hand,
looking for the one who knows no better,
somewhere in this room,
a storm in a vacuum,
plucking at my pockets,
smoothing my knuckles like they’re brass,
wishing I was Jesus
or whoever else is worshiped in these parts –
fellow workers look on
as all I need is just one lapse in concentration,
only the one,
a meet-cute fulfilling a day-dream,
masking my roots,
egged on by phantoms in the beer,
Don Juan legends,
raising myself like a statue
then severing myself from the block –
ah, look at her,
skin the color of someone on a copper coin,
hope I don’t spill on myself
as I spin her hair like webs,
steal her moments from all other men –
this is my country,
and it’s taking the orders I give it –
two lives I lead,
the shy and the confident,
the first innate,
the second alien
with no planet to go home to.
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