THE EUPHORIC HIGHS
The euphoric highs,
the terrifying ecstasies
don’t last too long
so why ride the comet out to the end
without reading your own doom
in what comets portend
when there’s a third extreme you’ve overlooked
in the middle
that is born of the other two?
That’s why your words
don’t have three wings
and when you’re all dolled up
like the suns’s puppet
you’re still just a snowball on strings.
And hypocrite that I am,
I love the way you can turn your heart
into a nightclub for demons on shoreleave
from an ocean of shit,
of an older religion than light
that binds the serpent to its charms
by out-tempting the apple of knowledge
with the more alluring urgencies
of a woman rebooting her flesh
before the begetting of forms.
I’m as beguiled as any of your tides
by your ebbing and flowing
and there’s no end
to the simulacra of the moon
where I have lived too long alone
like an island in the sea of shadows
waiting for your return
without believing it was possible.
Eventually everyone’s an ocean
that can’t endure its own weather
and disappointed in gravity
wanders off into space,
scars of water among stars.
Now it’s one of my strangest graces
to cry over the slightest thing
whether the bell of a sorrow
too heavy for anyone to lift,
or any human excellence
that transcends understanding.
Some people follow them like blood
and some people cut across them like veins
but the road I’m on
is as wide as it is long
and it hasn’t gone anywhere for years
but I don’t let my homelessness
exaggerate the importance
of making it back to my own heart
because if there were any love there in the first place
things are best left to do that on their own.