I’m through measuring
my life by pounds
and inches. I come
to myself humbled,
asking forgiveness
but I will not listen.
I pour the last sorrow
down the drain.
It is the new year,
my glass is empty,
the half-full moon
urges me to celebrate.
Today I move
without rising
to my feet.
I think without
being conscious
of thought,
and act through
the inaction
of my soul.
The world is
a series of
complications,
focused on
now, past,
and future
none of which
is relevant.
I plan my day
by planning nothing.
My thoughts are only
of your eyes when
you said you loved me
and I believed you.
I can trace the outline
of your iris in my mind,
piercing blue like static
electricity. As you scuff
your feet across shag
carpet and touch
something metal,
the shock dulling
nerve endings long
enough to forget
how cold the surface
is underneath.
Breathe me.
Part your lips,
draw me in
deeply.
Hunger for me,
want me,
I am all
you require.
Taste me.
Lick my salt,
I lie thick
on your tongue,
like ash spewed
from a volcano.
Feel my tremors,
thirst for me
in the desert.
I am like rain,
I will wash
you clean.
See me,
watch me
love you.
Close your eyes,
feel me enter
the temple.
Love is religion.
Religion first appeared in [i]Coil Magazine[/i].
Explosions varumpf
across red clay valley,
tongue-fucking my ears.
Micro jet loops,
carves new hole
in earth’s shoulders.
Sound delayed by distance,
sight not far enough.
Monsoon rains death,
but cannot cleanse.
Addictions birthed here,
reunions in hell gather here.
Heroin high,
never been lower.
Mama san knows,
gums betel nut;
red mouth, no teeth.
Smirking,
we will all go,
one way or another.
I fly away, never leave.
Phu Cat, Vietnam-1970 first appeared in [i]Coil magazine[/i].
Life has had its way with me.
I am exiled,
to a chair in this hotel room,
counting lines in wallpaper.
Lines so straight, sharp
you could shave with them.
Imprisoned with me;
vertical cellmates.
My life revolves around me,
gliding along walls.
Resignation
brings retreat,
refuge,
in the written word.
I rise above,
free from form,
look down quiet,
velvet halls
leading to a lobby
full of strangers,
checking out,
resuming lives
I have not lived.
Exile in Room 101 first appeared in [i]Coil Magazine[/i].
