Sunday, December 14, 2008

The One I Love

I don't understand the words we made from it.
Thinking didn't clarify at all, nor having felt it.
These two points made it all the more confusing.
Where I stood in relation to you, and where you sat,
naked after consummating what we shared,

my nerves like chocolate foil wrappers strewn
empty of silver after having revealed
the sweetness within.

The sweetness that now gild my mouth
after having made a gift of it.

Sweet words, sweet words.

(What does this mean? The one I love?)

These sweetened words that now lie
meaningless in the silence

that has crept into the best of all possible worlds, this world,
after the kisses that silenced it, after having
refused its share of the glory;

these words became
another secret.

(What does this mean? The one you love?)

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

The Master's Return

When he comes back, it feels like
my eyes are finally unclouded.
I look out over the city and sense its
gentle pulsations; its amber glow
and jewels. In every light that burns, I know
a ritual is calling me back
from the absence.

Dark voices
whisper
in my ear.
There are spies everywhere.
From the dull grey of the kitchen knife
to the dirt crescents of my nails,
I can finally see them for what they are.

And from the balcony of my condominium,
I receive missives from my enemies
who have perceived my knowing.
They have seen my head illuminated
like polished silver, unvarnished truth.
Even the crows snipering in the trees
have called a truce.

So this is the aftermath, the post calculation.
Whatever violence that was left
is now garlanded in light.
And you can see him walking down the slope--
the bridegroom in shameless velvet--
to where I sleep
enchanted.

With songs, he rouses me to wakefulness.
With kisses, he douses me to hopefulness.
“It’s time to write again, my love.
For our master has returned.”
And he looks at me, his eyes
sparkling with a desire
to begin our story again.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Jealousy, Bourgeois and Common

Barthes wrote of jealousy as bourgeois and common—
but there’s nothing common about my jealousy.

My jealousy is a boy soldier strung between Koreas.
My jealousy is Daniel Dennett dreaming of angels.
My jealousy is a terrorist singing to his timebomb.
My jealousy is the garland around Judy's throat.

My jealousy refuses fakery; how can it be bourgeois?
Roland be damned, you know nothing about jealousy.

Jealousy is a madman screaming at Mona Lisa.
Jealousy is the Twin Towers as a blockade of cinders.
Jealousy is a child shuffled like mahjong pieces.
Jealousy is Mother Theresa's refusal to be forgotten.