the
key is to pull the long rope, slowly
the
ignition fires up
sparks
an electrical arc
to
combustion, waiting
I
put the car in reverse
and
back out of the parking spot
night
time is coming fast
with
mid-September sliding
in
beneath the yellow-
stained
ends of leaves
the
folly of a cut Sun silhouette
says
the manger is a closing womb
and
I roll down the window
to
smell the linger here
there
is nothing on the radio
so
I put a CD in
the
dashboard’s small
mechanical
mouth
take
five, from Dave Brubeck
churning
rhythm, bobbing my head
lifting
my spirit in circular melody
I
find myself lost in jazz
every
time I listen
like
my favorite game
of
sensed deprivation and sate
like
when I am taking
your
panties off with care
and
insistence
and
finding my nose
devouring
each part
of
surrender in their scent
this
a memory
yet
to be
there
is a candle
on
the night stand
and I see
that it is painting
the
wall into animals
we
hear them coming
we
know they’re inside
a
brushstroke of an exhale
right
now we are
little
Mona Lisas
but
by morning
there
will be frescoes
around
the block
and
you whisper my cock
will
make a clock obsolete
as
it plays
your favorite
sundial
theater
movements
the
salty wake of arms
held
around a moment
oysters
time
presses
it
into
little potions
to
pocket
for
a later on
when
one might not
be
so near
the
clear view
of
your soul
in
the dark
with
that one
candle
burning
anything
can turn reason
into
a pearl
into
chaos
into
the whir of tires
along
the block
outside
the open window
I
slow down for traffic lights
as
if they know to catch
and
hold onto my simple
yearn
to be
loved
in just the right way
that
opens the stars
and
pours their shine
into
someone’s eyes
sometimes
the color blue
is
the approach
of
how someone can
unbutton
my desires
one
at a time
until
I say
let
me do it
and
my fingers find
that
clumsy works too
when
slowed down enough
to
see molecule after molecule
burning
to catch
a
ride home
caterwauling
September
into
the air
I
am racing
toward
October
bleeding
myself into
her
memory
drinking
myself into
her
sugar
plum-rosing
every head flower
past
it’s velvet prime
slow
squeezed lust
stains
me
covers
me
enters
me
as
the spice rack stadiums
are
all full of paid admissions
so
let me help you
they
finger paint
our
erasable minds
have
faintly sung
everyone
is ready
the
pantheon of pies
has
begun
to
be served
warm
and
crusty
flaky,
buttery
and
you are
ready
to be eaten too
tinder
paper forests
rustle
leaves
eddy
in the nooks and eaves
where
the wind finds time
is
a scour
a
slow rise dream
of tomorrow's Sun
playing
patty-cake for rum
while
looking through
to
the other side of glass
the
neon vacancy light turns me on
with
a slung hobo pack and a pole
to
balance where I’m at
while
walking the flats
with
the mountains in the distance
I
can stretch a single memory
into
an infinity and live there
cardboard
cathedral-ing
my
soul like a long dormancy
with
a slow awakening
so
should I bleed through
and
it’s you out there waiting
please
just need me too
and
draw down the Moon
into
the well
and
drink me
a
ringing thought
clear
as any bell
could
toll
the
night with
EJR
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