Transition

Separation changed the color of my eyes from pale blue to soot gray. The skin around them stayed swollen and oldish, so I pulled my eyes out one day. And even though we worked it out, and got back home again, I never put my eyes back. They still roll like plastic toys in my pocket. I take them out and press them deeply in my head. Nothing happens but the black film of the sky falls darkly upon the day. Separation changed the color of my eyes from pale blue to soot gray.

Sentence

A gush of angels and the warm susurrus of God convey a poetic mood. One of fluidity. As does sex, death, words, love, lies, heroes, and villains. You can be anything or anyone  in a poem. You can kill your demons or love the liquid body of The Beloved. You can eat the bloodred word you use for “pomegranates” as seeds spill from your mouth and juice fills your cheeks. There is only one rule: you cannot change or leave. You are stuck in the poem forever.

Ars Poetica

I don’t know why this bother happens to me, this noise.

                           Sometimes it’s as boring as dead gods, at other times

some flowering beauty caught and splayed like stars.

It’s nothing but the self, the gorgeousness of things,

                           the pulsing emptiness and impetus of an unborn poem

and what I fear and love as the long night comes on.