If That, Like This. #157

If that is who you serve,
okay, than we can only
speak like this, in these words
cut like a vein, separate
from each other. There’d be
no point in responding
to you in my plain way,
in my everyday voice.
There would be no logic
in explaining to you
how the sun rose today
or how, now that the sun
has fallen, temperatures
dropping now that you walked
back into and too quick
out of my life again,
how the sweaty, muggy
dew that hung between us
tumbles onto the earth,
into the soil, feeds
the plants that feed the beasts.

If this is who love serves,
the animal nature,
the part of me that lives
in the wild, scales
trees, digs under logs
for grubs to eat, okay,
let us speak. I simply
disagree with your coy
respect for my artwork,
with your love songs
for my performances.
I don’t want you to love
this, because as you sit
in the front row cheering,
ripping off your guises
and your masks, tossing them
to the ring at my feet,
I am picking them up,
not to entertain you
but to be close to you.

I loved the mugginess
between us, when you’re hot
and bothered and I’m hot
and sweaty, the tension
thick, palpable and hung
on the crest of your lips,
what I dreamt I could lick
clean with my stories built
up on your upper lip.
This sweat, your aroma
was all I could carry
with me, this wretched hope
that I could one day live
our fantasy, spend time
drowning in the moistness
between your thighs, in that
humid jungle of your
being, digging down in
the garden of delights
that was your living tome.

But you took that from me,
called me a clown for your
delight, reveled in my
agony. So, please look
at the sky tonight. See
that while you are gone, the
heat and humidity
between us has fallen.
I am not of the earth
nor of the dark forest
nor in the trees. I’m still
in the sky and angry.
Cracked, a raucous lightning
loud enough to divide
molecules of water.
This is all my fury
that lovers will smell once
all the water has felled.
The scent of the garden
of your thighs. But you see
none of it. By morning,

Okay, you come. The world
looks calming and new, you
will walk the sky picking
back up the pearls I left
for you, droplets I threw
down in anger. Slowly,
your heat carries them up
until they collect back
like a union, hanging
together in limbo,
this place where I love you
and can never have you.
It’s not pleasant, okay,
I didn’t want to be
this far away. If you
had asked, said this life meant
nothing to you now, said
something changed the moment
you walked in that morning,
and everything was now
obsolete, petrified.

If you had come and sat
in this bucket seat next
to me and we drove off
into the sun, rising
or setting, into some
absent life where the ones
we promised, all promises
were null and void to make
room for the purity
of this moment, if life
could build on a moment,
I would have gone with you.
And whatever we would
have created, something
long or for a weekend
would live now inside us,
clean us out like a storm,
a cyclone, nor’easter,
all the dead and dying
leaves of our lives knocked back
to the ground. The bald trees

And the houses torn down,
ready to be built up,
or, at best, abandoned.
But you did not want this.
You could not live for this.
So you confuse the thick
rhythm of my words, deep
longing of my words, long
vowels of my words for food,
grubs sitting on the crust
of the earth, still hidden,
as the best part of me,
as the part you’ve settled
having. It’s not enough
and it is not, okay.
If that is who you serve,
then we can only speak
like this, we can only
mumble like this, about
vague and cryptic dances,

Like this, we can only
live in the dark forest
of the impossible
and the magic. How nice
the plummeting rain sounds.
And when the rain is done
the last drops shaking off
the leaves, onto the leaves
below, and onto soft
waiting earth that cradles
me after my tantrums,
the place you pinpoint me
the next morning, sleeping.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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