LIVING MY WAY
Living my way through these dark nights
trying not to be idiotized by the media
because there are so few real stars around,
like a shattered window, and glad of it,
I prefer to elaborate more enquiring delusions,
let the spiders weave dreamcatchers
around my dark jewel of blood
to keep the nightmares out
that conjure me like a mode of being
that frightens them
to a seance of long distance calls
that never pick the receiver up.
I don’t know what I’d say anyway if they were to ask.
That words roll like flypaper off our tongues
trying to catch a star,
that nothing is false because nothing is true?
Most people conceal a foreboding
even in their deepest jubilation
like an eclipse up their sleeve
to trump the blue harvest moon
of their immutable nature
betting against themselves
so busy looking for wealth
they’ve forgotten how to be rich.
Why paint your window
and when you’re asked if it’s raining,
not know, or insist
when the dead come
to legislate the here and now of the living
it isn’t seasonal, that the birds won’t be back
to jack the lies out of the eyes of your iron bells
And you may be lost
in this desert of stars like dark matter
staggering from one severity of subsistence to the next
as if you were the only certified cheque
in an encyclopedia of bad paper,
but you don’t know, you don’t know, which way to go
in these enormous spaces
until there’s real water
in the begging bowl of your most desperate oasis
and you are no longer the dupe of your own lunar seas.
I don’t look for myself like a sail, black or white,
on a tide of shadows anymore
or think I’m the unobserved phase
on the far side of the moon
that heretically hexs the crops.
I danced like fire at the martyrdom of that scarecrow
and unspooled myself like smoke
to breathe in the cool bliss of an enlightened ghost
that isn’t spooked by fingerprints
left at the scene of the crime
that reveal everyone’s identity
under the same perp’s happenstantial alias.
Well beyond culpability, judgment, blame, sin,
no swans on the river
under the hooded axes of the moon,
I have witnessed the innocent confess to the guilty
things that advance like a blade of silence through a demon’s heart
and the guilty, true to the innocent, forgive them for the scars.
And I don’t know if its a la mode among planets
to twist your orbits this way into infinite figure-eights
and revolve around the sun like sand in an hourglass
as if your desert could be timed,
or I’ved inverted the anhk
and thrust my neck through it like a noose
to hang like a constellation from a Judas-tree
that is truer to its betrayal
than I ever was to my sincerity,
but I’ve spread my wings,
I’ve closed my book of webs
and revel in these gusts of stars
in this afterlife of smoke
that sweeps all these thresholds away.
There’s nothing to be. Nothing not to be
when you’re out of the loop,
or more precisely, the loop is out of me.