Sunday, January 13, 2008

Mi Casa

The crows are cawing the funeral dirge:
A requiem for these gables.
The bricks tumble out of the windows,
Down the flaky spotted cheeks.

The crowbars come down,
Again and again.

A single little red beetle
Has crawled slowly but unharmed
Out of the ruins of my house.


This is a precious pain.

To know that I am not dreaming,
I need a pinch that breaks the thin skin on my arm.
This is that pain.

This is a fragile pain.

To relieve it I must try
To smile and sparkle when I can't,
So I can snuff it out.
But I mustn't.

If I do, its beautiful nacreous shell will burst
And droplets of pain will traverse the air
And be lost to me forever.

This is a fragile precious beautiful pain.


There are two blue veins that run
Riverine on your fair forearm: among the forests.

They are the sole obsession of
The twin stars that shine on the horizon
Streaked by the peachy fingers of my dawn.

The rain clouds have smoked up the skies
And a million painful ants are crawling on the ground
Among the worms and the maggots and other filth.

There are so many faces assembled here
And their mouths are all weirdly the same.

There are one hundred clones of you.
There are one hundred different clones of me.