YOU CAN’T DRINK SPIT FROM ANOTHER MAN’S MOUTH THOUGH I JUST DID
You can’t drink spit from another man’s mouth though I just did
and convince me it’s a desertwell in an hourglass.
I wrote a book about the Tuarig. They teach their camels to dance.
And play the cithara like a synchronized guitar.
Point is. You’ve got to taste the water for yourself
to know what’s hot, what’s cold. Bifurcated faucets. It’s an optical delusion.
Dust devils of stars. Poof. It’s a magic trick of the heart.
To be so cruelly lonely you want to fool somebody good.
Cling to your loneliness. Cling to your solitude.
Do you good if you can hang in there until you bloom
but I’m not your living room. That is. At the tip of your nose
like a rosebud. Like a black horned rhinocerus in a parachute.
Parking meters in veils and rattlesnake hoods
that make them look either like a medicine bag
or an executioner. Am I making myself understood?
It’s apparitional. A dream. A mirage. A ghost
you stub your heart on like a prophetic skull that isn’t
where it’s suppose to be like Christmas dinnerware at Easter.
The coasters are wrong for the occasion. This isn’t
a delirium you can see through easily as if you were someone
and the Queen of Heaven didn’t mind. But don’t
approach it feverishly. It sleeps. And you don’t want to wake the lotus
before she’s finished her dream. Of you and me, bud. Who else?
But the world as it is and always has been and will be
past tense by the time you think about it. Gone
like yesterday’s sunset that made even the crows hesitate
or Basho in the autumn looking up. Even so. Even so . . .
The blue thrush calls over by the waterfalls that sound
like the Pleiades mourning for somebody with bells.
Forget that. This is as crucial as an abyss. Emptiness.
Endless emptiness where nothing is but the stars as if
they’d just been winnowed by time. Stillness. Silence.
After the stained glass windows, your eyes turning back
on themselves like a memory losing its mirrors
of something eternal as sand in a wine vat.
Stars in an hourglass timing cosmic eggs with Sufi flutes
at the still point of the crossroads where the equinoxes meet
like mystic weathervanes an octave lower than light.
Sing it. Sing it like you mean it like an unsigned loveletter to your soul.
Trample the grapes like mistletoe pawnbroker moons
and saccharine snow globes. I hesitate to say it
but this is all you know on earth, all you need to know.
It’s a sad, sad, sad, sad gift from somebody you don’t know.
But they gave it to you anyway. And it’s meant to be opened
in gratitude and anticipation. Then give away some
like a cake that begs to be shared with desolation.
Poetry. Here’s your hossu. Now you can whisk the dust of the stars
off your shoulders like epaulets on a fossil
and address somebody from the heart beside a well
that can hear the stars in what you say from so, so far away
they look like shortcircuiting fireflies at Armageddon
that are at peace with themselves over the stillness of an ocean
that thought it heard mermaids singing just a while ago.