The ocean where many of our songs are maps
(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)
Once, once you were like Persia to
me. For the last time, show me the ways
to love. Cue me its despair. It's hardship.
This deprivation that must follow its
demise. This starvation that must follow
its poverty. This progress. This madness
that eats away at my soul. It twinkles
like noisy stars, those glam beauty queens
with their own illustrious alibis, their lunar
emptiness and subtle-subtle subterfuge.
No more walking in circles for me, friend.
No more wishing the past is gone while
sitting in at my kitchen table. I'm over that bridge.
These stars have their own silent-silent
moon-sick horses. Moon-sick bones.
Butterflies in their governing confusion
leaving scratch-marks on the seawalls
of my stomach. The red brick walls of
my lungs. I think your parade beautiful.
I think you're lovely. I think you're
Jupiter. Does it matter. Does it matter.
I think of those Caucasian stars pasted
on the ceiling of the night sky. I am ready to confess.
Does it matter that I am only ready to
confess now. I am trying to erase the beast-monster.
Monster-beast that has made me suffer so.
The forest was painted. It even had a few
wrinkles. Age lines made out of soul.
Spidery leaves marking the end of time, that
hourglass country, a hive found there
in the segmental ruins of the God-supernatural
found in the honey and milk and blood-
work of the desert. Let's take a road trip
out there to where the wind blows. That
infant deed. Can you tell. I'm dreaming
of those Parisian-syllables. The ethereal.
The apparition of that high mountain-top.
That drum. That prophet. God's lions.