The wind is long and the tongue is wet. Once they get past the point where they might hate you, they love you ardently. Of course I burn my bridges, I have a boat. And after seven nights at sea I forget I am not a boat myself. From over the side I grasp for a topside turvy child that is actually only tepid water shadowing itself. Thus marks the epoch of love in dribs and drabs. It was always my practice -- if one must always be the original doer of his actions -- to be the original teller, as well. The unscathed will always have a harder time proving their genuineness to me. For every hull-moment I was dark, I chose to be so. For every eve my sails were wet with under water, I did not dare right them. And from every grocery store in California, I have such thoughts of you. Tonight. What am I to do when nothing can be made to be broad without succumbing to the axe of nitpicking? O weeping breaks the inoperable grip of the commonplace and, for that, is so sincerely entrepreneurial. I have always been reluctant to suppress my identity, by declaring it. Identity, at it again. Ask me my age and I will wet-tongue swallow a belch, to explain age as a location, I answer, “in the arms of the far Milky Way!” Milky, I make my way to the latin phrases of a wooded floor, bee pollen to chew in hand, remembering years as a vessel.

No lie of mine has ever bothered me; all of them were so lovely. I have been a giant in tragedy; its aftermath has dwindled me. Like when a deep brown strand of her hair stays between your thighs nights later. If god supplies anything in this life, above all, it is mood. And if like the Bible insists, god made himself man to know the dirty bottoms of feet, he surely walked the long hallway to her bed with his own throat in hand to offer. The aftermath of dwelling, he leaves his unspeaking name as bruises and exits to exist as deity once more. In my brute life, my own too early doom has always come so dramatically right before the angel. And if goodness be so glorified as to make evil an abstraction, then I must come in contact with it. Ma, will I ever know a feeling (out to roost) from a feeling I persuaded myself to feel? But what could a feeling be but felt? Bonitas non est pessimis esse meliorem. O the day as a boy I looked behind the mirror and double took. Because the truly loyal keep up their grudges, on either side, even in their dreams. Leaving them and me foolhardy, me and them chums, you and I blueberries, and I flogging with fictional stress and frictional redress your beautiful unheralded bum. How imperious that anyone should be in love with you.

You and I blueberries. You and I nectarines. You and I canteloping. Polygamous fruit. A diamond and a rind on every finger. Whither these fragrances come from, we know not; but secrets, my dandelions, secrets are inescapably man-made. Synonymous with discontent and anonymously passing notes around the kitchen cabinets. I, as I ever could be, telling you in the steam on the bathroom mirror, in the royal jelly on my toast, in the white crown molding bemoaning us. And if we subsist, drear, crumpling, into the cigarette-manic fools we used to be and call sanctuary bathroom with one mouth, then midday drinking again it is beautifully in awful spunk that without my sleep, there is not a thing that passes my notice without a touch of sadness that I am both glad for and cannot share with anyone, we’re so indian-style, cute as misaccomplishment. Scathed and scathing, bathing in the audible light of dawn, as Jupiter takes their place 778 million km outside this window, 45° from the moment where this window pane frames you handling me. “I would to be sure. But any man with the cursed ability to understand the opposition of his instincts longs endlessly for the bondage of destiny.”

When it comes to criminality, for me, the fear of incarceration and its stain does not outweigh the sexual pull of getting away with it and our abandonment. Why is the past a rose, the present a clod, and the future a sneeze? Let me steal for you a ship. Let me teach the wind how to shake a tree in your direction. Be wildly abandoned with me. Be a salt-crusted knee on the deck of my thigh, praying a rosary for the child you will neglect in my honor. The voice behind the porthole, of a swan woman, to take even the simplest of mysteries. I looked at her like I’d look upon a peacock’s feather, crooning, “I do not want to fill an emptiness in your heart. I want to see if in your full, blithe heart there is any room left for me.”

Milky, I make my way. O from the wall I hold up with my spine, I let you feed me from your empty cabinet. Because the success of our most promising liars depends essentially on that most crucial of lies, that of feigning an inability to lie altogether. Lie down. You bring out in people as much as there is in you. Of course I burn my boats. I do not stand by me. I am a wax candle near enough to treatise to hoax.

I often think, “Shouldn’t more be happening?” in some small, barely lit, and late conversation; and then I think, “But how close we are!” and I’m as warm as I am whet. You know, in the first part of my life, my enthusiasm was rife with mania. And now that I have combatted the mania with my sure, complicit body, I have only my enthusiasm, the angel of youth. I just thought I’d say. And yet. Insofar as my legs reach beyond my ankles, let my feet run --padfoot-- the length and breadth of your sternum from chin to airplane take off. I am still running. The metaphor of our transportations will build a home for us made entirely of literal light and literal dark. Of what use is my being without place? And of what use is this place without my being? And of what being will bare my dirty feet. Rain is reminiscence. That’s all you gotta say. Be with me a reticence, o you cat-tongued man of wet clothes and stories.

You’ll see, if the details of circumstance, above the starkness of event, have always been importunate, to the point of entangling the survival found in pressing-on, with the nagging automation and indelibility of the senses’ watchman; if her enigmatic hoarse dolor is lost on your somehow biologically collecting the fact of the moon and the vital shadow strewn on her cheek at the time, or on your narrating residually the way thought was at once a slug and a rabbit to and fro throughout the personal crisis; if the cinema of these concurring trifles is helplessly inescapable; if it is as effortless as it is despised, then, with inoffensive pity, I look on you, brother of the bloodless daydream, for you’ll already know, still yet fraught with amazement; if she as a woman was surpassed, even once, by alas just the notion of her scent or of her step, you’ll see, without trying, that when the argument is exhausted, and the raw fissures of conjoining madness clear, with suction, for the quiet run-out-of fog, which is also a clearing, but achieved in a spray; you’ll see, because you cannot but see, stricken, that despite argument’s cataclysm, the intestines do go on to bicker, like frogs, even if you two are sentenced by a living room of your fears, your brutal uncaressing fears, to ten barrenful minutes of hard labor, known as silence, as culpability in wait, as inexpressible collapse, and as abandon; you’ll see, bodily, constantly, strictly, that the act of love is forever beautifully ambushed by details, but that love itself is either tortured by them or evaded for them; and if you do not see, you will only have to listen, for it is audible and continuous.

Repeat after me: “O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams.” For when the orb of our unending days rests it head for finale on our charred waters, the last vestiges of the silver battles I won will be the false-endlessness of stars over you, countable in it’s abundance but unimaginable in it’s universal platitudes. As the paths of Eden are no longer walkable and the fertile gates lay begotten, repeat after me: “O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams.” As we furlong unabashedly into the new nightime of our delirium, we shed the ribbons of Paradise from our wrists and cut from our tongues the screams of a past forgotten; we dislocate ourselves from the joints of eons laid bare by the passage of a vessel not too small that the gods themselves do not pay a fare; we break the steadfast bodies of a land created in a room and thrown away past this milky home for us to escape the light that for so long has demanded it be mastered. Repeat after me: “O sun, I hate thee in a way that thy beams will burn the eyes from my pocked face but where I go, I need not eyes and I need not you.” Yours and mine bodies will bear witness to the bang-drum of the birth of a time. Bear witness to this body as it redresses in a lightless epoch, count on the old gods to forget us.

The mark of the truth is a willingness to admit that the story is out of order. Pretending to make up that you made something up, remarkably close to the truth. So that every joy has its snare, we live in a world without meaning and without meaninglessness. How many books have come from just five minutes with her and her loveliness? She was elegant, elusive, and wronged. Shit. Real tragedies never have any entertainment value. Hey downcast one, the trivial is only the significant with a blindfold. And you will never not be yourself looking at yourself. So if underneath the shyness is the act of shyness, it is most inherently selfishness. I loved myself, I thought, as the self is a medium. But that wasn’t love; fascination, tinkering maybe. But not love. Old enough to do so, finally, as a person, I am still waiting madly to love myself.