Echolalia

Horse's ass, always!

The found nasturtium brings holiness in its wake,
and we, fatigued,
know nothing of guile,
of spit,
of rancor.
Germs, unfrozen,
cast crows before the bloody majesty of a north Texas dawn.

The matter sits thusly —
thus and so,
thus and so;
and I'll be a cusséd clown
who shapes his head around a frown.

Such is the skillful nature of creation:
cervical, metallurgic,
trailing filth and scale behind it.

Whatever that means. I mean,
two kisses double one, and neither are richer for it.
Let's forget living, striving, straining,
and instead fall through the center of existence
as lifeless rays whose resistance
rests in opposing opposition,
drifting instead with the riptide —
Quelle drag!

Lust Won't Break the Door

Every night, after I close my eyes,
I fall into situations in which you're there,
You're face a fist, clenched and trembling,
Your eyes seeing only what's behind me. . .

But not entirely;
Every so often they do dance across my face,
And I feel the hot pins of disdain they register.
You'll never know the ice-white light of eyes with devotion
dead behind them.

We'll never never never never never be even . . .

Holy Week

Not once, in the days and months since past—not a call, not a clue that it was anything other than a waste, an experiment, a dress rehearsal for later lives.

You put down the foil, but not before knocking mine from my hands, and I stand dumbly sucking smarts you gave me.

Tears dry before hearts mend—this is eternal law.