Infinity Blues Read online

  city built by people caving in with math, making everything a grid–

  so Taxi by Taxi–

  one may move without a map.

  But you always, or we always like to say the names, the corners, and their

  complexity may vary in degree or range, but you like to say the names, they are

  your landmarks,

  and now

  you may move without a map

  you may lie upon the floor in tears and cry for nothingness

  you may read a book, no watch

  you may sleep in, maybe twice or not

  you may stay awake and shake and examine dusty corners

  you may pretend they have meanings unintended and

  maybe you just were not looking before

  was that there

  is that a sign

  when did that little cloth heart get a push pin next to a window

  with

  a crystal on a hook a suction cup and the light particles dance as they break up

  like an outmoded satellite

  you have been programmed now

  to

  reenter the atmosphere

  and

  become elemental, now

  IF

  if you surrender like a man does, when he would like to surrender the way

  he believes a woman does, when he is a man like myself, and thinks only true

  surrender has been witnessed or seen in crucifix–

  through the blood and the wood and the nails, hung up on a wall or a hill,

  regardless, sacrificed everywhere

  … that kind of surrender that keeps you from getting there.

  a. one pair of shoes for the walking one will need to do

  b. the icons of the ages must fall so you may examine carefully and without

  thought

  WHEN

  when she comes, if you are ready, when she comes, she does the very thing they

  all did to you before

  BUT when you are ripe and the tree is fit for fruit with questions inside its juicy

  silk,

  when you are almost at tilt,

  that is when, unlike the others, you go small as a danger, small as a swallowing

  then, bam

  Cave-In

  this is interrupted by the longest silence that no words could cover, no diagram

  nor map.

  You

  it is only you now

  and the pause.

  Hold onto yourself as tightly as you can and cut the rope

  and enter

  enter into this fire, and pass through, because it only takes once

  that one time

  and then you understand desire,

  and you

  you just know, you just know who you are.

  NOW

  you may move without a map,

  because we all know the horrors; pretty shoes and madness

  and they are coming

  Taxi by Taxi.

  Perfect/Seasons

  this season

  i got it perfect again

  understand that

  perfect

  like the woman says to the man

  she will not let in again

  “see you soon”

  that is what i say to this season

  so isolated

  my harvest in

  winter on steel and steel on tread

  boots on feet

  instead of sled

  this concrete has a mark made

  by the hand

  twitchy

  from the coffee and the slight grin

  turned like a cat’s

  on the face of a kid

  undone undid

  this season

  i got it perfect again

  understand that

  shouting

  get your rooftop ready and your face

  pressed into a wall and a

  glass and an aspirin

  get ready for summer

  withdrawal

  like there wasn’t any hot

  above me

  angels rear heavy swords inside them stars

  ready to swing

  this season

  perfect

  The Break Bell

  these old songs are the break bell

  and the lanterns relighting

  celebrations happen here

  inside this

  my love, at 26

  feasts on bloody meat

  and cocktail shimmy

  for glass root

  bath salt skin in a rush

  with scrubbing gloves

  and loves to dish

  a manhattan boat on stilts

  water just tarmac and taxi smear

  i was like, never here, or something

  i bet,

  they say,

  to her,

  when she just so parts her legs

  and the line reveals infinite class

  forever schooled

  once your thoughts go past

  her dress

  up on the wall with you

  and us, we howling fool dogs

  with draining cry eyes and fur tangles

  and that old dog wheeze

  sing the tune

  trash can lit with fire

  smoke from the manhole cover

  every cliché

  fingerless accidental gloves

  brown oversized coat

  driven to madness

  from a good home

  come join u on the wall

  when your number

  is not the one to call

  you turned like meat goes bad

  like saturday seafood like eggs

  like milk in the box in the fridge

  next to the salt from the bag

  of take-in

  come on,

  come in,

  come up

  at 26,

  she is fit to eat the lion

  from his cage

  and beat the eagle

  to the sea

  in a straight dive

  yanked prey from his mouth

  and the beak CLACKED

  just air

  come up here,

  your eyes have burned from your skull

  her gaze is upon your deep

  and your soul

  is next

  you are the mall

  no janitor can fix

  join us on the wall

  and sing the old songs

  light the lanterns

  a new prisoner

  comes

  ringing the break bell

  Old People Are Raised/Make Room

  come out from under the rocks,

  you children

  you basset hounds with new faces

  you snarling gangs

  cruel youth in small frames

  sharing information

  come out from under the rocks,

  into the kitchen

  in the door well

  on the light spot

  from that sun

  going down on that street old people are raised

  gather in the swallowed hole

  where the grates come off

  the floor–for the third time

  it’s all yours

  come out to play with your copied keys,

  you fearless mist

  you spectator analyst

  bad from the day you were born

  and lipsticked

  and lunged with words

  muttered in the halls

  of schools long past fitted for a damp drip

  and an elbowed grunt

  with slippers

  and a senile bad back to fit

  come in,

  into the kitchen

  in the door’s place

  under the bright rind

  of orange day fade

  burning down on that street old people are raised

  and break our hearts

 
; one by one

  so we can die

  a helpless death

  and make room for the running of the word

  Blueberry Sweat

  this static in my mind

  it reminds me of blueberry

  sweat too

  from fucking

  and how flowers smell

  when they accidentally come through an open window

  not by the bed

  but by the chair by the window

  far enough from the bed

  to make the light

  be a bell

  and bell-shaped

  and fall into the curves of the pale skin and the sheets

  plus that humming sound

  not like an air conditioner unit

  the big ones behind the buildings

  those food emporiums now mostly abandoned

  but that low hum

  that says the day will be sweet

  and i will receive a letter

  or a postcard

  with simple instructions

  on how best i am loved

  in the day

  for my day’s work

  i miss the simple threads to my next encounter

  and her heartbeat slow and steady

  pure as snow

  fucking beaten to bruises inside though from all her thinking

  i miss that

  that static in my mind

  is the summertime sweet

  or is it like the swing

  teetering back and forth

  pulling on the chain?

  is the house full of dolls

  or is it motherings

  pink smoke

  and a book of spells?

  we can work it we can work it out

  we can work it out

  the work

  is

  to love

  too much

  and

  blueberry sweat.

  oh my we stole the show

  we stole the show

  she and i did dear

  my goodness

  did we ever

  in the night’s black cold

  coal eyes

  and snake constellations

  etc. above her/us

  we stole the show

  and i stole her

  she did not belong to me

  though

  bang clatter

  something breaking in the kitchen

  yelling screaming

  fighting

  exciting

  in taxis in airplanes

  always in hand

  we settled in

  we settled in

  Lord

  she stole my heart

  for reals

  and could rap alongside Nas

  anyone

  stunning

  in perfect Oxford Queen’s English

  madness

  madness

  we stole the show

  and the ending had to be as big as that

  that beginning

  love at first sight

  true love

  i never knew that before.

  how long?

  does a heart last after that

  once the show is gone?

  i am clinging to the seat

  like it will play back

  the kind of thing

  you watch and watch again

  or so shocked

  you never can speak of anything again

  oh my

  Flickering

  with my eyes

  in the skull

  back like

  they were

  flickering

  muscles

  tighter

  than wires

  i surrender

  to the bed

  and

  let it have

  at me eat

  my today

  feast on

  my bones

  gnaw on

  my pores

  this nap

  or

  revelations

  or

  succumbing

  to

  slippery

  moments

  either way

  it is

  something

  else

  entirely

  and all

  yes yes

  yes yes

  then

  silence

  with my eyes

  in the skull

  like a

  deeper

  drink

  like

  a dropped sink

  on

  a bounced

  check of a day

  cleared

  by the banks

  for

  the fuck of it

  yes yes

  yes yes

  slippery

  then

  silence

  after the

  clearing

  is the

  sheets up

  and

  limbs

  out

  and

  hair a messed

  wreck

  of a

  dreamed

  desert sip

  lips curled

  around

  the

  drink

  soda fountain

  pink

  and

  very

  fucking

  yes

  yes

  yes

  yes

  and

  release

  with my eyes

  in the skull

  back like

  they were

  flickering

  Wow, I’m Insane

  Have you ever known a grief

  so strange

  it broke you into pieces of flames

  and

  hard-boiled eggs

  insane

  roaming table to table

  in a lurch

  with a hump

  weighed soundly on your back

  too many thoughts

  to carry that weight?

  have you?

  dip-shits

  fuck-face …

  huh?

  Have you seen that sign

  with bulbs flashing in dust

  the airborn soot

  trampled under foot

  and just gone

  like a Sally Field haircut?

  Well, it is by design

  sometimes

  to attract those asses into seats

  to watch

  me with all that me on fire and burning

  as you went

  as you left.

  Have you ever known your grief by name?

  huh?

  Oh I have now, child, I have a degree

  several degrees in burning

  by your hands

  when you weren’t looking

  with us not touching

  my bones alight

  each and every time

  your name descends from a heaven

  too far up

  falling so fast

  till it drills a hole through my bed

  my bed a body

  where no summertime is

  for kicks

  for whatever

  wow

  I’m insane

  but just for now

  for a kick

  when I stutter

  for lost things

  gone sailing on brutal winds

  on Christopher Cross yacht

  hidden under my winter clothes

  waiting to be discovered

  there are no secrets

  waiting to be discovered

  I’m just insane

  wow,

  I’m growing old

  I’m growing out

  wearing thin

  wearing out and rusting

  just me, alonesque

  living with Hope

  that bitch

  what am I, 9?

  9 again

  I
was such a stubborn kid

  allergic to the knowing

  a love

  it came and went

  silently

  without an end

  and yet

  this springtime scare

  it is inevitable

  and

  something outside

  inside the gray

  it is growing

  wow,

  I’m insane.

  Low Gong Goes the Clouds

  Bells bells bells i hear bells

  i turn off her lamp

  i turn on her lamp

  still not enough light

  she is not coming back

  i did this to myself

  i call i write

  she says all i want to do is fight

  i am alone now

  one day when the storms pass

  this yard will be bare

  bare of the trees and grass

  and nothing will grow

  i am covered

  in snow

  frozen

  but you know

  you know this about me

  i turn on her lamp

  i turn off her lamp

  and i hear

  bells

  bells bells

  the bells of doom

  and i did this

  to me

  myself

  wow

  i hear for now

  the inevitable

  sound of bells

  because bells sounds

  right

  thatsoundslikepoetrytome

  anyways

  i hear it for now

  the glory and the line

  clipped with my torso

  when i come dashing by

  in my yellow shorts

  and sweatband

  wait

  NO NO NO NO NO

  i do not see any of that

  not mixed with bells anyway

  what did it mean to ask myself

  that just then

  if i was good for

  you know

  another “win”

  hell

  i don’t know

  and i would not even if I did

  even if I did

  i would not know where to begin

  about

  all that glory

  and

  what someone might do with that

  is this what a rumble with a loose goose

  after a night on the town is suppose to be

  for most you know without all that losing

  on their mind

  not on their mind

  you know what i mean

  is it

  because

  i am quite certain that must be a freedom like they had

  before people were expected to know things about themselves

  that kept them away from others in the night or day

  in any way

  once they felt like a beehive or a readied study

  of a stinger’s dozen

  with more in the flock

  just not in your hair

  or under your shirt

  No

  i see buildings

  rising with windows and offices

  so much office-supply stuff in them

  and

  clicking and typing and i imagine people

  people in sharp shirts and ties actually actually

  typing