Thursday, July 5, 2012

And Bring the Octopus a White Russian

You were peeling the moon
              with a book of Buddhist matches
& I was learning to listen with your eyes
                              hoisted from the wreckage of a
windswept rooftop with pearl inlay
              & that same feathered wisp of cloud that
followed us from Pismo like Blake’s worm
                              above derivative sunlit streets near the beach
as if to say “Let’s just sit here & tell each other sad stories”
              chased the night out along the catwalk pier
in the middle of the afternoon
                              & it was like silk or aluminum out there
at that depth & from the rolling surface tension lifted
shallow roses & the fake sombrero
shaped like water…
I just naturally assumed there’d be electric guitars
              & the true life confession in a million words or less
drums pushed over a cliff & rudimentary exercises in
iambic pentameter
& bowing to the four sacred corners of Sky, Earth, Ocean
& Time starving in the bell of a saxophone
I make the following introductory speech―
“counting fingers & toes” “converted to a silvery new religion”
“just the shadow of” “& reaching for the page”
“at the end of the mind”
“Palm Leaves Disinclined by Virtue of Engines”
“like ghost mules in the fog” “tideropes & tabernacles”
“in the blue morning air” “of night”