June 20, 2012

poem 195 of a poem a day for 2012

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


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