My holiest intent
is to do my best
to enjoy the hell
out of this specific incarnation,
its quirks and foibles,
challenges and riches,
as I fully invest
in playing John Biscello
for a short while,
before identity melts
and disperses into so many
glimmering blue and golden bubbles,
and I return to the source for a Bardo makeover.
By carnal
I mean
tearing pulpy flesh
from the moon
dipping it in kersosene
then the match
the fire
between your legs
as the sound of sirens
thrill and enlighten us
to the possibilites that
A) We will be saved
or
B) The house will burn down
and reform us into fornicating ghosts–
When you say carnal
what do you mean?
Even with ten thousand
electric tongues
I could not have reached that one spot,
that pinking chamber
and embedded source of ache
which reminded me
time and again
of my own intimate relationship
to distance,
and how I’d binge on empty space
like a Zen cannibal
with a bloodlust for the sate
and sweet tease of nothing,
how I’d enter you,
to find me, alone,
dreaming of the deepest
most impossible pinks
by which to merge
immeasurably.
There is a level of insistence,
a shivering drumbeat, that comes with
being who you are, exactly, upon this earth,
fractures and all.
It is the very bones
of existential jazz, its jonesing and felicity,
and the greatest most supple genius lies
in learning to play yourself out,
seeding the art of who you are,
and how you course, into thin air,
practing the scales of a molecular siege
that will always remain an unfinished
marvel in progress.
Today
I woke
to the pulsing
ribbed memory
of that night
you wore nothing except
a knotted bodice of white flags,
and my mouth, prey to your body’s religion,
submitted gospel
as a savage
flagrant reform
to amen.
By revolving gradations
of blue
I have loved you,
have sunken to airless depths
trying to breathe you in,
every dammed bubble
sealing the green of memory
in a small forever place
where cherish is softened
by reams of fading light.
There is something
about the holiest seethe
that keeps us golden-green
migrant beggars,
bartering stigmata
for leavened alms
to persist,
this side of dreaming.
Kissing,
where the vibrato slug of tongue
plugs in to electrical temporal heaven
for a singed sprint through molten puddles.
To ask
how deep
is not the right question
of the blade,
but rather,
how much moon,
if any,
is reflected in the silver of your teeth
when piercing skin
to venerate pink?
There’s something about filing
a mortal grievance with angels
that’s reassuring.
As if,
there you are,
casually adrift
on a slow-moving
first-class
glassy blue glacier,
going out to sea,
and you cheerfully wave goodbye
to yourself,
entrusting the course of dream
to so much fade
and mist.
