get happy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QawFBxJMr5E

in the throes of a tragic reversal (rev 1)

My bedroom is cluttered with film strips of our hearts sliding back and forth on parallel wires running from my sunken chest to yours. Two hearts move in a still frame. I have placed a cloth over my true love's face because desire has taught me my name is futility. I think it's only the truly hopeless that find something brand new in life to save, causing them to repeatedly dream of the counterfeits of heroism. I am looking for a logical idea of what love is all about so I lose my happiness. The last things you said to me are "a wind that bends you over the foundation stone of compulsion and disturbance means you know how to die continually" and "sometimes you must get your ass kicked into being receptive". Your refusal to open a door that you slammed shut turns the rupture into an interruption that gives me ellipses for fingerprints. Why does other always become the analog of love? I will re-plant the trees uprooted by the flood pouring out of the thicket of our bodies. The flood is milk mixed with whiskey. Muddy, with hands drenched in solitary residence, I burrow the quaking aspens deep into warm morning. Looking in your footstep, I saw ideas of consequences. We will talk of other things now. The orange early-morning sun coats the trees in brown sugar. Give me your hands so you can't wave goodbye.

snow

As she readies
for the meeting
her reverie playing
on the wall
atones
for perfection
unobtained

hold still the bottle

snow on the roads
makes night
more so
she talks rapidly
deconstructing
the collision
or was it just

a drink and a kiss

the king of A.A. part II *

This morning
when your half-full bottles of Jack Daniels forsake you
for a thirstier, more perfect drunk,
when the white-throated sparrow
sings profanely to you in your borrowed clothing,
when God hands you the Death Baby
instead of rocking you like a father would,
you should be happy with this.

This morning
when you see winter coming
carrying a cross and a star,
when your soul adheres to your bones
like a suicide hugs her gun,
when you tuck away so many lies
that your pockets bulge and rip,
you should be happy with this.

Be happy with this,
as Vermillion’s ten-thousandth
blizzard hides you from God.
Tilt your head back,
gather a mouthful of snow,
and pray, let me swallow magic.

And as your side is slit
by the tight smiles on the lips of poets
who have nailed you, silent, to a cross
that is meant for a thief who has stolen
more than words, be happy. No one else
has had her eyes pinched shut by a star.
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* for alice, who asked for this back.