The way the harsh light bounces off your skin makes me think your face is electric. Soft pores and sunshine fleshtones. Almost like your face is the sun, and you are the son of the sun. The Son of the Sun. The Son of Man. On the wall, the clock ticks loudly. Ticking is just another word for stabbing. Looking across the room, I can see the angry, inflamed air. It has pus and blood. It's gaping. I draw a shallow breath and taste saltiness. You draw a breath and taste nougat. When you do, I can't help but look at your teeth. Your pearlywhites. Vanilla gelato. Sweet and good to eat. Were we ever friends? Could we be? A smile sneaks its way in at the corner of your mouth, and your foot begins to tap. I can't tell whether the ticking is making the noise anymore, or your foot.

Twelve years from now, you walk down the street with your son on your shoulders and your wife at your side. While you and your boy eat Baby Ruths, she snaps a picture. In it, the nougaty center is clearly visible. It looks like your skin. Sunshiney and soft and not salty at all.

it's late
and the first thing i hear is the clock's bell
ringing for each hour like a stab wound
smelling like salt and New York Harbor
as if i were a navyman like him
but silence washes over the room in a wave
and in its undertow the sands of my father are left behind

if my father was a poet he'd love all the white space
his room is a short poem, then--
an archipelago, each island
a monolith:

near the navy clock (born from saltwater and teenage dreams)
a dresser that could tell stories of wooden teeth and Blackbeard

then another, even heavier and dripping
with ancient handiwork--Marie Antoinette ate cake off it

a tv crowns it, almost aggressively
simple, burying history under Technicolor

a rug kneels in front of Marie & her crown
geometric paradise in brown and white

emptiness otherwise, just white walls (comfortably clinical)
and no extra space used (except for the bed--
large, a remnant of divorce)

and then, once again, i smell the sea
as the clock strikes something

or maybe something-thirty

in that moment
my fingertips could almost taste you,
your delicate wig powdered with virginal white,
the crushed velvet of your robes

my fingertips could almost taste you,
not this still museum air--
the crushed velvet of your robes
stank of oil and nothing like you

this still museum air
and the arch of your back & line of your jaw
stank of oil and nothing like you,
but i wanted to be in your arms,

the arch of your back and line of your jaw
o cobblestone eyes, why couldn't i see you just once?
i wanted to be in your arms, but
i felt the kisses of the gas lamps

o cobblestone eyes, why couldn't i see you just once,
your delicate wig powdered with virginal white?
i felt the kisses of the gas lamps
in that moment

and on the air I taste the
brine of your laughter (but where is my
crown?). I can feel my skin cry out for better
days; some long-gone
error-ridden age as it
feasts on my memory with hungry teeth. Only

godlike garbage grows
here, where among the grey matter, divinity
inches its way in in
jumbled fragments. These images can't be
kept in messy tableaus for
long: entropy stops for no
man (or woman or beast or). Our
neverland is top-full of hymns:

o, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!

Prayer comes in bizarre
questions, and answers drawn out in
raspy breaths. I want to
see each one, smoky and staining the
teeth that asked (like they could ever
understand). I want to feel the
voluptuousness of the unknown, riding each
wave to the sandy shore. I want to never
x-out days again, never wait to hit
yet another
zero.

Along with the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to another--physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought.

oh
to see my mirrored image rise
and fade into smoke
masking divine faces and beautiful pillows
(laced with gold so pretty)
in an ***** den

my body bursts with imperfections
and i can't bear to look
while shutters flutter over lenses
where prettiness blooms like sunflowers
yellow and bright like so many better
than me

how can i ever match
the daisies and the crisp cool shirts
that move them to tears?
what sandy shore has my shape earned?
reflecting pools sing in shrill
tongues like earbleed

eyes and heart are locked together
eyeline to lifeline
a rome-born French Connection
and i can only look
from miles away
heavy

but Lord was she ugly.

and everyone I know.

what air-conditioned heart is this
here where mothers meet and ports sing crusted sugarsongs
where I remember the synthesized forget-me-nots kissed by lemons
in chemical yellow

and blasphemous portraits seem to cry
with tears light as baby's breath against the heavy frescos
in the matchstick cathedrals lined with crumbling gouda
and bitter wine?

stags wear ruined antlers and crown the hillside
above the gilded city as it slides into the sea
to the echo of violins in a sprightly sigh
and then your laugh

(plaster-of-Paris is as beautiful as blood diamonds)

oh god, can i still picture snowy teeth
and breaths like wolves blotting the hillside

gray wolves
such teeth