I. the end of days
like some irreverent foot that with one mismotion
destroys an anthill,
and so the beauty of this world and
the beauty of you will be
confined to a memory rife with inconsistency
II. that the tiny spark of hope
of desire to grow will
sputter in my palms
despite my cupping hands against the wind
and I will sink below the depths I am
III. that when I bare my soul, I expose my mind
and the utter nakedness of my intentions come to light and
I will be
IV. death and its cousin omniscience:
do those who loved me see me now?
Will I watch you love another when I leave?
V. knowledge, for knowing the truth invalidates inaction
VI. ascension, for I am unworthy on my own to rise, and
who will catch me in my meteoric fall?
VII. that we are all but endless and
eternity whispers to us in our
reminding us in echoes that our heartbeats are merely
Groan again your siren song--oh!--it comes in broken weakened
Once you licked my neck like
long-departed loves, now you sell yourself to other
I still yearn for glimpses
Squinting at the aging sun I
strain my eyes to catch the stars
masked by pale blues, smoggy greys
winter rains, blinding rays--but
won't you wish your heart upon me?
Won't you trace my jawline with your lips? Your
delicate fingers, sultry eyes--
Make me feel pitiful again.
He strides like stepping over
shattered glass his
twig legs make two tiny wakes and he
finds his spot outside the eddies
in the slightest sunbeam
beneath the willow where he
shudders his beak and blinks
until his eyelids no longer lift
and deep within his secret place
he finally withdraws.
the west end is on fire
again like clockwork and I
pray for devastation--
for once it's all reduced to ash
the world may never
a linear expression of experience,
a long strip of film like
the kind in old projectors with the
sepiatic sputters and flickers--
yes! Imagine yourself a strip of film but
rolled up messily like
the earbuds in your pocket or
folding fitted bedsheets.
You are a movie and the filmstrip endpiece lies at your feet,
you are knots and coils and tangles and
if you were to lie down at the top of this mountain for a moment--just a moment!--perhaps
the wind would catch the loops of film and
you would feel yourself
bury me there--right there--in the
shade of the sycamore where the
sand will never dry.
When you carry me down feel the river rocks they
groan and grate beneath our weight.
Bury me shallowly so that
if the rains return
the water will swell and find the strength to
carry me home.
So this is how the dreamer dies,
a vague and fading
recollection of the yesteryears and
the sleep sinks around the backside of the eyes
where it haunts the mind in
The vividity of living fades to grey and
all is calm, all is
And so the dreamer dies, like falling back asleep.