Sunday, September 25, 2011

the damnedest things

Your love is conditional, guarded by diplomats, but real.
Tonight we bat our tirades at and over each other
like beach balls smuggled into a ballgame;
your hand brushes mine, the waiter notices,
his words surround the affection
like fenceposts lining a perimeter
that can’t be secured. The end of this plot?
Well, you’ll exalt New York and your share of it,
leave me to defend Chicago and the rest of
America’s nethers from this fête on heels
like some hapless, backpedaled Cary Grant,
and then we’ll melt into each other’s beds
like découpage. OK! It’s true, I can’t change.
This heart beats with ink. I shape myself
from black. You always take the form of a question,
opening away from the facts
over breakfast with a gust of champagne;
knowing me, I’d spend my mornings
with pen and napkin in hand,
looking a little careless,
quietly guessing the answers.

Sunday, September 04, 2011

autumn number one

Blame it on this chemical affection
and leave his youth alone for a change.
He points his car down past the docks
where the stevedores fish and smoke joints after work,
their bent bodies baked into relief by a sun froze low in the sky.
He just needs to keep moving,
to press himself out through the capillaries of this county
like a drop of blood escaping the skin.
His dog, a nine-year-old retriever,
sticks its head out the other window
while a sixer of Milwaukee's Best rattles against
the twelve-gauge in the back.
He conjures less magic these days
because more of the science is known,
and there's enough science to matters of the heart
that we can model many of these disasters in advance.
We project that he will never die.
But if he had his way, he'd go an ember,
incinerated beneath this perfect sun of endless summer.