"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Salient of Reverie

A muddled mess of lifeless branches
I hear her sing and descend
on broken wings, I think she meant
for me to mend all things
that make the days so grave

A cemetery in mind
a graveside tryst in the lye
flanked by reeds our floods seem to sway.

My darling raven bathes in puddles
drawn in theft of crescent
eyes, I am bereft, please don’t drink
all the mem’ries I’ve left
to spate pathos in waves

In reverie do I find
that I, with my river
nourished your flight away.

Freezing in that moment
see in through the grain
I am seasoned by the texture of the wood
that does remain.
The bark watermark
running high from a rainstorm
in ink, alluded to here,

My other lover’s daft goodbye
settles me with moonless night
a torrent painting whatever happens to be near
or rooted.
Now the roots are misshapen, haggard
rotted, too
I thought that she fought for me,
her Odysseus
my own Athena
she caught a  spear for me
in a dream, I think;
awake in a stream I bleed
the pool you sipped was us.

My body was a desultory stranger
bivouacked in late December
a trial by campfire light,
perspicuous cadence in her embers
her tongue no longer swells and waits
to lay claim to the liquor it creates

I taste your heat at a distance

And sense the river dye my leaves
below the shattered weir
now she leaves me there to dry,
on the shoal of my nadir.

Like a haunt burnished
awash with exorcism
These trees stir and strafe
their limbs a dragnet schism
(in perfunctory conflict
I vie for a new wraith)
A prolific death;

the undone and floundering
war for solidarity
in the winter’s mist of song
while reverie guides the curette along.
Freezing in a moment
I see in through the grain
they, seasoned by the texture
of the song that does remain,
are martyrs of a different blade
voiceless left.

A starless autumn came to them
over summer’s brackish gutters
another lover’s deft goodbye
moonlight eyes
that I have alluded to here
closed over the sky like shutters
a self-contained flurry in ink
a torrent painting
whatever is near
or rooted.

-May, ’05

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