|Number Four is Heroin (from Suite :: Mary)
No one knows more about the music I am into that I. Heavy bees,
Listening, and the
Stupefied copper of color
Can all just thrust their humid
And mobilized buzz into the aching amber hammock of my
Heart. Please. I have the wings of an escalator on. I am a rising man. When
God wakes, rubbing out of his snooze on the thirtyninth afternoon
The rain is raining. The rain is raining hard. I get up. I get on down. Another
Day my own sharp body, electric
With jazz in guitar shops, stops.
Every note I deliver disengaged from its chord
Hovers, soaked, in its own honey ochre over
The salted city, and sails the musical, salt sea of myself.
This beautiful mess of mainline I've made is mine.
Hell, I can't believe it. He saved me for Himself. Is it time?
|The Available Country of Women
By the end of any appalling and brilliant day
In any Athenian winter, knocked out on an airplane bisecting the sea,
Exactly around the fire, a beautiful man or outrageous child
Or father from a longer place, says I would die for you.
Romancing a flame, crouching, crunching the ash, you either
Answer: I know, or you will, or you did. You
Wake, wild and typical as wheels touch down on fast black gravel. You want
Waffles early Sunday mornings from a mix. You want Miyake, birch-smooth skis,
A sun, a splintering sea. Irish Mist. You ask your dream, and mean it: why not
Live out on the earth like this?