ONCE POETRY HAD SEWN YOUR MOUTH SHUT
Once poetry had sewn your mouth shut
with a spinal cord of the silence
I never expected to hear from you again.
My heart used to hemorrhage like a rose
whenever you unquivered one of your nightbirds
like an arrow that sang its way to the mark.
What notes perch on your guitar strings now
like multiple event horizons over the black hole
that used to dilate like the pupil of a stoned guitar
with a night vision of the way you become a star?
Some of us shine. Some of us beam. Some of us twinkle.
When did the dark energy of your mythic inflation
go supernova, or did you just drop
another cosmic egg on the queasy floor
of your stagefright? I remember that night
in the burning doorway when you finally
became cruel enough to ignore with impunity.
No blame. I won’t whip you with the chains
that once held me like vows I meant to keep.
Nightfalls came and passed and the sleeper in me
woke eventually to the Venus fly trap
that flaunted your radiance in a false dawn
like a bad high school play in a small town.
And yet, and yet, I’ve never been so petty
that I regret what I had to leave of myself
like roadkill at the side of the road, and walk on
any way I could after I’d shed you
like the skin of the snake that swallowed the moon
to be reborn on the dark side of a dragon with wings.
And I like the way this fire deep inside of me
sings to me alone at night when I’m down by the river
the willows are trying to carry like the lifeline
of the melody that makes me weep in the wake of its beauty
for how the themes of life weave and unweave us
like wavelengths of the membranes of M-theory
with the wingspan of flying carpets that came to rest
under the gravestones in a local cemetery of windows
that cry themselves to sleep every night
like black voice boxes less honest thieves than we were
broke into looking for the catastrophic gifts
we offered up to death like the eyes
we pryed out of our crystal skulls
as a way of placating what we’ve lived so long
in the name of, we forgot we were only acting.
So I bid you go in peace like the smoke of a firestorm
over the faraway hills of a distant mindscape.
You’re a ghost of the lightning that mesmerized my fireflies
into believing they shone like jewels of insight,
the medium of a porchlight that summoned
the spiders and moths out of the night to join
in the rapture of feasting upon one another like addicts
in a frenzy of celestial hormones in a pandemonium
of panicked dreamcatchers veiling an eyeless sorceress
with an hourglass tattoo of time on her back
embittered by the fact it was running out on you
like the power of a mandala painted in sand
just the same as I did when the wind picked up enough
to blow us both out like the candles of unsuccessful sacrament.