I WILL NOT BEGGAR MY VOICE
I will not beggar my voice to plead for spare thorns
from the bloodbanks of the docile roses.
Nor will I remove those from my hands
or the strawberry of my heart
like the broken fangs of old tattoos
I came by honestly in a prison of somnambulists
who kept their trigger finger
on the first crescent of the moon
to make sure nobody got the last word in
even in their sleep, whatever that meant to them.
And the sun is shining gloriously, albino peach,
azure blue of Alpine eyes, the sky,
and nothing within reach I want.
Four days now this dolorous bell
recast from the swords I’ve plunged through my heart
to remain honourable, and save face
like my empty place at the table below the salt,
making me feel as if I were only an elegy shy of grieving
without knowing why or for whom.
Me, the world, another, unknown, or the cosmic wound
that has deepened with the passing years
and has learned to worship the enlightened arrowhead
of the human condition it’s buried in like sacred scar tissue?
Five days ago I was inestimably young again, a meteor
slashing across the nightsky, all light and fury,
writing alif on my flesh in Kufic script as if
I were about to make myself a blood brother to the moon.
And I brought oxygen with me like a renewable atmosphere
to forgive my intensity, and a big, wide, open space
where the crazy sages and their lilaceous initiates
could chill out like waterlilies in a thinktank
where they could say anything they wanted
they didn’t have to mean twice. I was
a quick-witted thief of fire coming in through
the back window of the house of life like a grave-robber
with only a firefly for a flashlight
and my own intuition for a starmap
wherein lies the buried treasure under the feet of the gods.
But the sadness of the seer and the seeker
has descended upon me like a cloud of unknowing
and the mountain I was climbing has disappeared
as if it just evaporated into thin air, and, despite the fact
I still give off enough radiance even as a white dwarf
that imploded on itself turning the light around
and going deep inside, eyebeams shining
in all eleven dimensions of hyperspace at once,
I can’t help lighting up as much of hell
as I do of heaven in my search for the source of myself
as if neither I nor it exist except as the habit
of an old relationship that has kept us too long apart.