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Revival, Reunion, waiting by the train
A prose poem


I drop down fifty flights of stairs and the moon beckons me no where except
where a sight-seeing tourist from the inside is exploiting my garnered limp.
His gullet is adorned with crumpled skin and mole colored jewels.

Inside my nose is stinging and I take it as a sign that the
scorpion has just crawled inside. My tongue will speak words
of models drawing out my past vision of vernacular suicide.

I crawl to the coffee shop and order shots of espresso until my chest explodes.
I wait for you by the front window but you're no where to be seen.
I assume it's because I gained weight again and I feel fat again
Since I quit mind surfing I don't ride as smooth anymore.

Limping and leaving, my heart stops and I am clutched to a street light.
The fat gullet trumpet vine has wrapped around my bronchial tubes again.
Manipulation is a tired tactic and I prefer pure fucking instead.
I will wait for you half past five next weekend if I am not dead by then.

I will merge into you but not frighten you.
I will sing to you gently but there will be no song even if you ask for one.
I will leave you one foot to find in the garbage. Most importantly
I don't know how to love. It's your crumbled clutch, displacement
with wine and roses sentiment. Yeah, it's that role I play.

Inside I know that flash you want of that woman standing sprawled
dripping clean with wet and glitter all over your mommy's blanket.
What a coward you've become. God, all gracious, the women,
the women just want to screw you all over, mister vision
of a Robert Plant Fantasy. Go on, bro, grunt and give them your disease.

My skin is still smooth and I still flutter like a pixie
all over your jewels, stealing them. The yawn of the guitar still runs down my leg
and as the new moon raises the energy depletes from your
soul merging with mine accordingly.

Most likely you will have a nightmare about me tonight.
A hallway will rise up in magenta and run like a trumpet vine,
run from your toes to your abdomen to down your trachea
where then you will blossom orange, finally spreading
something half beautiful, even if you're still a weed.

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Written a year ago, edited in a class and hated by the New Letters editor. All of the editing I removed and am now working from a fresh slate, which is why I posted it. I don't previously edit anything I post on this blog. I could change that to my biography: "Always edited in class and hated by the editor."