Wednesday, February 18, 2015

i don't know who it was that told you
you have to be perfect, but they were wrong.

this was said. nobody told me to be perfect.
i was just curious what it would be like.

i'm sort of the bridesmaid to "perfect"

it wears pure fluff- bleached peacock feathers,
smiling that ecstatic mouth, holding

a flute glass by its stem. it
reminds me of tulips. i pretend that i'm at an opera,

where there's more than a pristine white-
there are colors of blood-many, my neck in dyed ivory.
now i am in the opera.

that ivory fattens me up.
the prey-drive- the urge
to do whatever comes my way,
remains an unstoppable force,

i am a little married, come to think of it.
i have dead bouquets i keep, ones
that were already dead when received. and i knew it.

under the power of light, we are

incarnations of gabriel, that blinding angel
with messages from god in old-english.

silk-gold and hot- "all of you brilliant
yet absolutely stupid",

i'm pressing against things and we're pressing
one another with our respective fixations.

i see you have your own,
as do i. do you notice? i bare them. a mating dance.

i feel it in me, that want to touch
things of all sorts. there's
someone nearby telling me to resist.

farewell, i let them know. i'll never forget
the strength of your disgust toward me.

it's the way of a mountain i have- risen
from the earth, made of history, never
forgetting, but without a

resistance, a fight, or a denial.


the iscariots, with their fingers caught in doors,
have moved on but do not know
they deny the math.

do not break what adds.
do not fix what breaks.