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Up at 4 and still blurry from the lack of sleep that you gifted
Like a bouquet of pencils on school's first day of students.
Now the first bell, a second, a third for the morning,
Silence bellows till each seat is quickly subdued.
Coffee mingles with drugs of my scripted preparing
That you wrote on the agenda in a curled crimson script.
Laid out clothes, laid out shoes, laid out moment of freshness --
Lines of text strain to listen for each of their cues.
Hushed tones, could have sworn, were for morning meditation,
Now can't stand for the joy of your fiery first lecture.
Told the story a first time, a second, a third for good measure.
Rapt attention drew close as the morning did too.
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| To live in dusk
Or a thought before sunrise,
Took in the red glare,
The first yellow glint.
Looked to grip
One life pacing to time,
Between rising and setting,
Constant.
To leave a choice
Facing the rim glowing
Held one second or three,
Two minutes to spare.
Swelled to flare
In the ditch of our making,
Between sinking and surface,
Hidden.
Two forms of sight
Fled from light to the gravel
Till shadows engulfed,
Faltering blind.
Stilled the nerve
As one sun led to another,
Between living and dying,
Constant. | | |
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They told me that one was a question,
The other a brief kind of phrase
To describe our youngest expression
Of sympathetic mistakes, unfunded mandates.
They are fuel for our progress
And lights to our kind of old age
To fight our latest decisions
For cold hard dignity, good old fashion greed.
They are virtues of no other nature
Than the ones we have brought to the grave
To fund our greatest impressions
Of patriotic collectors, expired marble columns.
They have defined our next epoch
As tight as the bound books have banned
To rid our bourgeois nation
Of cardiac rhythms, hereditary bloodlines.
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So there's this ache.
In my throat.
Just below my lips, which still smile with smoke-stained teeth.
We are here.
Standing on this overlook.
Beyond the borders, past where they check visas and bibles.
My arms feel lead, and my head pounds for nicotine and scotch.
Like iron.
We are stubborn addicts.
I checked my watch.
That two-handed tyrant, that governs the natural disaster.
Still balanced.
And all I want.
To be shown.
One more route to consider, besides off this cliff into your broken arms.
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| Depravity becomes you, darling, so join the club for broken hearts.
Dancing just to feel ourselves dripping with diversion.
Transcribe the times for old times sake. We're wearing down our broken pens.
Selling with intent to buy, drawing our immersion.
Souless singers send their love and scrape the crowd with broken records.
Taking orders from ourselves to counteract subversion.
Reflection drowns our starry eyes, so hide your face from broken lights.
Reserving spaces for our names to cultivate perversion.
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