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The lilt of your sea
Is a mystery to me,
The form of your lips
A vast calligraphy.

The shape and stem
Of your new world,
Impregnated with maudlin and marrow,
And how it curled, instead of set.

You are remarkably
Cloud-hidden,
Less an end to everything,
More a furtive wellspring.

O sweet custodian of paradise,
Please measure out your turn of phrase
In the language of light,
As we enter into the uncreated night.
~
man on the moon,
woman in orbit,
unrequited science.
nowhere to land,
nothing to feel,
it might as well be Siberia.
luminaries change,
control lingers in the framework.

the heavens revolve
—deasil and artificial.
she has revolutions of her own,
legs that once swam
everyday in his backyard pool,
(that once draped around his coil)
now openly kick free
from his lunar confines.

he starts the countdown
—one one thousand,
two one thousand,
but she's not coming for him.
she's chasing other transmissions,
the bones of what she believes,
hoping something out there
can activate her heart.

~
~
Where there used to be trees,
but is now a causeway
under the Lord's nose,
reside a constant tourist and his wife
who have all they ever wanted,
light and lure.

They swim in a pool
on the dangling homestar,
overlooking metal decay,
she pinches his cheek,
he smacks her bottom,
summer in Gotham
is now upon them,
gifting different things:
he sees mystery lights endeavor,
she sees herself a dragonfly
on the lure.

Monday thru Friday
they like to ride
the elevator of their love,
up and down it goes along a focal point,
out of him and into her,
when the door closes
they come together,
when the door opens
it lets in the tide of loneliness
and they begin to push buttons.

They dislike home
and its constant secrets,
what she wears is for him,
but less is more,
he invades her often,
but she's become a empty field,
theirs is Neptune's bedroom,
if they don't find
a reason to make love,
they will stay up all night
until irritable frozen creatures.

Invictus interruptus,
with the luck of the draw
they play dangerous days:
a game of blindfolds
and snowmobiles,
a game of hammers
and nails.

The plane of their lust
hunts the morning light
on gloomy Sunday,
the rain wets their hair,
the sidewalk creates a song:
electric skylark,
they dance out of focus,
he grasps her hips,
she makes a beautiful sound,
caught by magic,
trapped by photographic memory
and numbered doors.

Light and lure.
All anomalies.

Sublimation will not return
until the day of the focal point,
in the city where they have
all they ever wanted,
yet here they have nothing
more than microcosm,
the rest is distraction.

Maybe they should
remain a constant.

Maybe he should
just hold her.

Maybe she should
just let herself be held.

~
~
I like the number 2,
so much in fact
I like it twice,
as in 22.

Now 2+2 equals 4,
but some say 2+2 equals 5,
It's quite the moral conundrum.

Still 5 is a cardinal, a prime,
why the Pythagoreans
thought of 5
as the marriage
between heaven and earth.

I empathize with 5 though,
for that's a lot of pressure
to put on a single solitary digit.

But I think I like him too,
he's a friend of 10,
which reminds me of
fingers, toes and Bo Derek.

But let's get back to 2,
which supposedly is company,
and 3, you see, is a crowd,
yet odd first and foremost
--Mersenne knew best, I guess.

Which brings me to 1,
small, but positive,
coveted, but united,
a face of multiple identities.

And should any other number
devise against it,
they would have no
success at all
--none, zero.

To be honest,
I think 1 likes 2,
and vice versa,
they're a complimentary couple
--both highly dutiful
and attracted to each other.

After all, it's said, "Someone may overpower
one alone, but two together can take a stand against him."

~
descendants of those left behind,

they found fellowship with

a singularly brutal environment,

free roaming meanderers

of a crepuscular exclusion zone,

having trekked into

the camps of liquidators

to beg for scraps,

they nosed into empty buildings

and found safe places to sleep,

stopping at Café Desyatka

for some borscht,

the guides speak only of

visitor or occupant,

there are no tourists here,

only the genetically distinct
She egresses from a pool of blue and straight into the colorless, Californian dregs of summer.

Each passing plane reminding her how stuck she is.

The question remains whether some people are doomed to just survive, a yearning for freedom following them around, until they learn to numb themselves to such aspirations.

Faraway trains pass by.

The sound in their whistles knowing the events she will litigate with herself for years to come until it empties the contents of her soul.
Y2K
At midnight
I will scare myself
into the new millennium

with dates
and charts
and graphs

about fractions
and formulas
and fundamental folly

all because
some genius thought
that in the grand scheme
of things

2 > 4
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