driving at my insomnia with Fellini
I
am Casanova
I
am a star-dusted memory
I
have made myself mad
I
have become a slain dream
I
am one long swirling moment
held
out as if my arms
are
letting go of my life
in
one accreted mass ritual
short
stacked radial burn
night
is right outside the window
and
the sweat pours from my forehead
I
have turned the fan off and
the
air conditioning doesn’t reach
this
part of the house
it
seems even the crickets
are
quietly tossing and turning too
thunder-stepping
onto each blade of grass
screaming
for more water
I
wonder if they are as hungry
to
make music with their legs
as
I am thirsty with desire
to
mouth her Goddess nipples
to
tease them
to
tongue them
until
my dreams
begin
to spill other births
like
my fingers do
roaming
a till of wet-Earth
hanging
in her secrets and gardens
I
mean I could look at all
the
pretty air-brushed pictures
on
the internet and
see
two dimensions
I
can ambulate
the
hollow architecture
of
what I hunger for
I
can even imagine a smile
for
my formless wanting
that
no words I write
have
ever really been able to find
a
home in, so instead
my
hands find where the water
turns
into blades and
I
watch what map my blood pools
in
the cardinal direction of ordinal sin
looking
for what turns me
from
sage to fool
and
back again
only
to realize a fool for Love
is
always the best way to begin
and
any map worth its weight
is only a memory given over
to
the countenance of clocks
carving
out eons in the wind
EJR
©
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