"ATTHIS"

(NEW POEM)

(for c. after and with maxine feldman)

i hate not being able. gone with all yr rifted
splendour, often and long. the offended swell
of feeling, small-town gossip. never free. into
the soft closet of response we fold the furling
dread of it forever. the landfill, incubating
stink. head of incredulous lettuce, the heart,
is brown and rinsed at the sink. how would
we know? a hot angst in the bladder, desire.
its greasy increase all the summer through.
i hate not being able. so young, yr blood-
shot skill at stoning, being stoned, the air,
thickly configured around u. or, yr coaxed
weight wet in my hand one time. a lean,
inhuman music falling out of us back
then. it was easy. until it wasn’t. pillow
fort u built between tall speakers. be my –
u are – pink-blue horse of superior hoof.
then gone. u knew who he was. the nose
u broke on his bucket of angular flowers,
u broke it gladly, crooning into yr cup
of bland malt. entered the cool dark
of any excuse like church. afraid
of being who i am. churched into hurt,
it was years, their milled particulate
white as circus dust, we kept away. his
was a shining time of bible, giddy-up
with uptight eyes. u sewed an exemplum
of men, a sampler of hands. i penned
extensive dockets of apology. to them!
connoisseurs of dog-track and grubby
dispensation. afraid of being who
i am. the black phylactery of lust,
thinly ribboning over the trees to
wrap us both around. i also chose,
an architect of heirloom light, he
closed me up inside the golden locket
of forgiveness, committed me to
memory. there is a loop of dead,
victorian hair wound around the bed-
room thrice. there is no devil.
the devil is a threshold. there is no
devil. stop my mouth with broken
loaves. feels like we’re animals
in cages. sensible shoes and spent
braids, i talk and talk. would bend
the tempo of this talking backwards,
breathless over the balcony. close-
cropped evening, murky with return,
and the saying of nothing crackles
like baking parchment. my mind
is blank, the napkin purged
of crumbs. u pluck a hem of aimless
lace. i separate a page by breath.
in cages. the plaster saints are
watching: holy gnomes, their
wheelbarrows full of ironic
punishments. we cannot move.
delayed awake inside of crass lustre,
lassitude, regret, past-tenses. it is
different now. the young, their
catalogue of allies. too late. it’s not
yr wife that i want. except one
time – when it was.