As wind passes through a screen door (Sutra #8)

2.
It is normal
to miss the poet we once were.
We should not mourn it,
but it is, I think,
okay to miss the stale smell of one's body, of
too much coffee and unwashed hair,
to be aware of how the needs of the body,
to eat and urinate and
breathe disrupted the transcription of your visions,
miss how ten line poems
kept you up until daybreak,
screaming-bloodshot eyes forgetting to blink.
I miss most the feeling
of plucking a line from the ether,
some green-dipped gem, wild and fractal,
imbued with fire.
There is no high,
no moment of clarity,
no greater release
than giving birth to something
only I could midwife onto the page,
something that breathes on its own,
pulses.

As wind passes through a screen door (Sutra #8)

1.
The hyperprolific, long-winded mystic is a man
I no longer recognize. I can hear him whisper
sometimes in the youngest hours of morning, a
dry choked cackle when I dream.
He was once me but he was mad, enrapt
and so far beyond any help or medication,
save for time and its passage.
It takes, often, a death
to trigger such a split, a distinction
between what was and what is - but
it need not be sudden. It is slow twists,
subtle at first,
and jagged edges in soul's flesh
that work best to rend
one part from another.

Poisoned

I.

it's a myth that smoke rises
down here, it's all i can smell.
everyone's exhaust is trapped down here
and it purples the skin around my eyes.
worse than that, i've become used
to breathing these toxins: lies about
where you were last night, knock-down
all night fights about the necklace
you gave to your T.A., weepings
over the toilet, cursing the pregnancy test makers,
shuffling of knees on carpet in your attempt
to naturally abort. the lies we tell ourselves as we lie
collapsed against brick from too many street drugs,
whirring blood struggling to escape vein
pounds against temples,
beckons the whisper of a blade to release it into air
where it can be red, where it can be alive,
vibrant, where it can become part of the concrete's
memory, permanent, a maroon stain
indistinguishable from the dark drippings of dumpsters.

Is this...?

I.

This is not the burnt out bulbs
behind lonely windows,

drawn curtains.

This is not frost that spiderwebs
across reflections,

fractures faces…

This is not dim memory of smells:
patchouli lovemakings & rivulets of tears –

a certain dampness.

This is not clenched buttock
or moist skin,

synapses tattered by ecstasy.

This is not a dark mark of shattered capillaries, this
is not sweat on your breast

or yielding flesh

or the electric taste of blood.

This is not green memory,
or the lover dissipated, their smell

evaporating from the bed you shared –
& this is not a rib dislodged,

wandering in skin –

this is not crimson regret…


II.

This is a thin sliver of morning,
silver baths of light –

visions transcribed
from pages of slow wandering.

This is shallow brushstrokes
layered over blanched canvas,

this is bright air & buoyant clouds
forgotten in dark winters.

This is a giddy wind
sweeping up another hat,

& this is the hand in yours
still cold from walking…

This is the song that vibrates
in the hollows of ears

long after it has ended –
this is simple melody.

This is the sun almost blotted out
by trees exploding with Spring –

this is light filtered
through veined palms…

This is a thought of departure
abandoned – these are quiet moments at home.

This is laundry day – hangers swaying on the rod
waiting to be laden with clothing.

& this is the smell of your bedroom,
that lingers in the fabric of old shirts…


III.

No, this is not manifesto;
this is morning breath.

No, this is not crippling fear;
this is hair, not yet dry & fragrant.

No, this is not timid caresses in a dull September;
this is the subtle heat of another body, shuddering…

This is the bad cooking eaten
because it is there.

This is the smell of coffee already half-gone
because you were late to rise.

This is the flicker of eyelids
& the constriction of irises…


Is this love?