Here. But I can’t say where this is.
Now. But it’s hard to determine the time zone
when the sun shines at midnight
like an X-ray of my skull.
Obviously, I’m thinking of you,
but I’m mapping myself like a lie detector
that’s trying to forge my neverending signature
on a pardon that didn’t come through.
And when the priests come like the last rites
to my holding cell
to compare confessions,
I’m wired to the night like a buddha
with his hand on the switch to enlightenment
and I burn for things God did on his own
though I’d be the last to throw the first stone
or plead like a judas-goat at the foot of a tiger-throne.
There’s no honour among thieves
when the shit hits the fan
and the only loyal man
is not a man born of a mother
but there are codes that you can keep to yourself
like ashes in the urns of the constellations
that have never been fingered out
like a suspect in a line-up.
I’m not rolling around in myself
like a thumb in ink
to see what I think
through a crack in the cup of the case,
and I’m not trying to conceal myself
behind the surgically-altered face of the moon
that sags like an old movie-star
over its reflection in the eyes of the morning dew.
For years I lived in isolation
like a message in the eye of a bottle lost at sea
but now I’ve forgotten what it was
I was meant to reveal
when the seal was broken
like DNA on the shard of mirror that slashed my throat
to keep me from singing
like a bubble of light in a lifeboat
or the last flash of a breath in the depths
from the mouth of drowning messiah
who mistook his feet for waves and stairs
and burnt them walking on stars.