Wednesday, May 29, 2013



Don’t be a stranger, come in, come in.
My house is your house. Out of the wind
for awhile, a hovel of broken mirrors
that help keep the cold out, or a palace of tears
synarthritically fused together like a glacier
of chandeliers by a candle in an igloo
slowly glazing its way to the calving sea
like the Nazi demolition of Warsaw.

When you’re dog-paddling in a shark bowl
of circling sundials, or you’re coming up from the depths,
remembering you’re a mammal, through
an airhole in an ice floe hoping your second innocence
doesn’t get clubbed to death as your first one did,
it’s only natural that the world dispossesses you
of your heart momentarily and you cringe.

This is where I’ve lived most of my life
like a poor boy that didn’t make good
in his mother’s eyes and now it’s too late, too late
to even hope I ever would. Not every sword
you fall upon like the truth guts you
quite the same, and some you don’t want to remove
for fear of what might come out that would
hurt you worse like a great black hole
in the center of the universe that’s bleeding out.

This is a shrine, asylum, shelter, lair, sanctum,
third eye of a hurricane looking back at you
like a snowblind computer screen which isn’t
quite what you expected of the enlightened,
and I don’t understand it either but here
transparency doesn’t mean you have to go to school
to learn to be a window. No sea change anyone
has to undergo like a mirage that’s just discovered
real water is the source of its eyes and the light
is an absentee father most of the time until someone
gets in its way and gives it a reason to shine.

No harm will befall you that I haven’t died for first.
But I won’t stand on the sum of all my failures
and call myself authoritatively experienced.
You’ve got to blow like a nightwind
on the apricot blossoms yourself to see
if that much beauty is as scattered as they say it is,
and we’re just a shadow of chaos lingering in the air
like the fragrance of an old song that came out of nowhere,
or creative annihilation is how we waterclock forward
into fruition like the ripeness is all windfall
into the big plunge into the abyss like Icarus
coming undone like candle-wax feathered in fire
like one too many parabolic flightbys of the sun.

No path to illumination but you can see
your way in the dark by the glow of fireflies
I keep like old insights that shine like night lights
through the eyes of my prophetic skulls
like metaphoric answers to questions that burn the soul
like a lantern held up to the stars overhead
to decipher the occult life lessons of your own starmud.

I started out afraid to write this poem but now
I see you standing in the doorway of this
my alternative, shapeshifting universe
playing transmorphically like a child on the moon
with lunar phases of its knowledge forms,
the crazy wisdom of my solitude waxes empathically
like a dream grammar coming into full harvest,
and for my sake as much as yours, I’m afraid to stop.


No comments: