he pushed the door aside. the black man. bleeding eyes. he wipes the blood with his long curious dreads. it bleeds. he wipes again. his hands jitter. and tremble. he was stabbed. on an october evening. going back home from work. i am blind. and i bleed. all day all night. give me dimes. and pebbles. scraps of geranium. i haven't eaten in four. a history of metaphor. i used to see my face. i used to see. the ripples on the lake. i used to see. the beauty of a tongue. the frame of cezanne. and the diamond on a dead wife. but i do not see. yet i do see. a darkness. i see? but i hear. the subway. rumble every minute. i hear a chatter when i pass. a sympathy. that sickens me. i abhor that clicking of your ruby rose bracelet. your breath of peppermint. whispering a psalm. i love the lord. and the lord gave me blood? the power of drugs. and a beer can epiphany. this was a life. this is a life. tangled in a dream. of a little home. of a little love. of a little kiss. of a little touch. of a beautiful smile. of a broken moon.
this palette of glass. take a drop of blood. on the lip of a brush. and swirl in spheres. one. two..three...four....and you create a wheel. of blood. patterns. a geometry of desire. a spiral spine. the backbone of an elegant loss. the loss of home. the loss of a smile. embroidered in a hymn. they saved your man. the manhood of piece. and peace of calm. of the boiling menagerie. of petal work wisps. of a continuous belch. this man of manners. where did he swim? in the bath house of shrill tendril men? on a vestibule. on a god. he swore. and now he bleeds. the blood on his finger tip. like glycerine sweat. and ruby rose. the blood on his eye ball. he licks the juice. to feed his soul. if nothing in this world. this blood is mine. this taste is mine. i eat my soul.
when the poet in the bar. sits and writes. and smiles. and drinks espresso in the corner. and eats macarons dipped in honey. and stares at the window. there is a working machinery. a mind that calms. a quiescent lust wrapped in a word of rhyme. and poetry. and an imagery of wounds. how it feels. how it may feel. how it could feel. feel? feel. feel what? an orgasm? a machinery of the poor? and smoke a paper can. they used to make those on the rooftops of the chinese doors. they are dead. their sons have forgotten. they had fathers and mothers. once.
this palette of glass. take a drop of blood. on the lip of a brush. and swirl in spheres. one. two..three...four....and you create a wheel. of blood. patterns. a geometry of desire. a spiral spine. the backbone of an elegant loss. the loss of home. the loss of a smile. embroidered in a hymn. they saved your man. the manhood of piece. and peace of calm. of the boiling menagerie. of petal work wisps. of a continuous belch. this man of manners. where did he swim? in the bath house of shrill tendril men? on a vestibule. on a god. he swore. and now he bleeds. the blood on his finger tip. like glycerine sweat. and ruby rose. the blood on his eye ball. he licks the juice. to feed his soul. if nothing in this world. this blood is mine. this taste is mine. i eat my soul.
when the poet in the bar. sits and writes. and smiles. and drinks espresso in the corner. and eats macarons dipped in honey. and stares at the window. there is a working machinery. a mind that calms. a quiescent lust wrapped in a word of rhyme. and poetry. and an imagery of wounds. how it feels. how it may feel. how it could feel. feel? feel. feel what? an orgasm? a machinery of the poor? and smoke a paper can. they used to make those on the rooftops of the chinese doors. they are dead. their sons have forgotten. they had fathers and mothers. once.
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