Lightbulb
On The Myth Of The Man Who Hung Himself With X-Mas Lights
Waiting For Another Sound
Ripped Package
Yours the difficult, yours the easy screw in, easy
screw out, yours the head like a deformed child’s, yours the cranial
mark like the prime minister’s.
Touching the wall, I have touched you in some furtive way, yours the luminosity
of messiahs. Come, drink from my empty breast.
Let my weak light
be yours.
On
The Myth Of The Man Who Hung Himself With X-Mas Lights
Blinking wordless atop a down comforter, tail end
of a goose, he floats, a buoy lone in a Northern seaport, orange, a drowning
reindeer
long thin head arced out of the water. Into the sky all the stars flickering,
lanterns in a gust—
welcomed into a vast cave by an old man about to serve up cream of mushroom
soup.
Annoying pedagogues would call it process,
say stuff that big blue banana in your trench coat for future declamations.
Pedagogues that were sluts of process.
Wait, here’s the point. They had no friends in the sky, nothing
to speak of or to in the sky. That was a self-sky. That thumbnail that
just tore the ten off the meter stick. Jesus Christ Superstar, who walks
casually across a puddle.
The slow-beating wife widening arcs wrestling
in the early morning sun. The door bell rings mail in accents arrives.
Blue caps.
Shades closing slowly leaving cracks of light the dark rooms sighing,
woman with gray face rings out grays pulls them along the clothesline
to dry in color, sorting like a dog's tongue what is important what tasteless
what repugnant, the keen inner eye of the dog's tongue. What is secretive
what is personal what is. Is not.
There the kept secret the legs, sleeping together two fish strung in a
dirty pool below the motorboat fisherman's seat. The patient sky reflected
in the water. Tide peels like skin back to reveal to operate in the salt-crusted
air. The spicy morning, the painful smile of the loved one. The nervous
laughter.
Laughter is an eye shutting shutting shutting
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