Two Poems: On Being
In my waking moments trapped
Behind hot eyelids
Before open doors
Cracked ajar by drug-laced demons
Sprawled and hiccuping on the floor,
I see all that I dodged before.
Not for peace or patience
Do I go there alone and pry
My eyes with these borrowed needles,
Nor for the sickness of the soil
Do I suffer this union quietly,
But for the beast and the broil
That sheds its constant turmoil.
Paper Lantern, Spinning
In the dream of passing days
The grisly record plays and plays
The same sweet pastel lullaby
To which the image flashes by.
And you, my seraph, bound with light
Are never, as then, full and bright
As in those paper lantern scenes
Of days before the holocene.
Beyond this moment to which we cling
Lie everyone and everything
And yet we play the motions out and say
What a fucking precious day!
We mourn today before the dusk
Our eyelid movies short and brusque
Come to their end and then we sleep
Too late to live, too sad to weep.