Opus: The Physicality Of The Impossibility Of Expression|
I wish I had less self-confidence
and more talent,
not that I have much of any.
I wish I had less money
and more success,
not that I have much of the first or any of the second
or any chance to have any of either.
I wish I lived on a deserted island
with one woman, no soap and seventeen dogs
hyena-fanged and mongoose-spirited and puppy-hearted
humanity excluded, cruelty excluded, atom bombs excluded.
I wish... I wish... I wish... sounds like a boy scout poem
I wish nothing. I live. Absurd thing, life.
Three hundred sixteen miles. Twelve dollars. Five degrees, Celsius.
Nine sins, nine wonders, nine millimeters,
not seven, nine
one less than fingers
one more than byte
two sins beyond mortality, you,
two wonders beyond mortality, you
nine more than death and eternity less than eternity
and I wonder if it is the ozone in the air or the mushrooms at dinner
or the pollen count way above the threshold where people sneeze
and people choke and people die.
Writing fluent nonsense,
is it something like madness or like autism
or like a running nose with no handkerchief in sight, in city, in country,
no handkerchief ever invented?
Pause. Block. Not mental, doesnít exist.
Logical. Reasonal. Conscientiousal. Dictionarial.
I have the idea
I donít have the words. Just the feel. The mood.
The physicality of the impossibility of expression.
Not emptiness. Abundance or its synonym glut or its synonym opulence.
Of desire, of no words, of the desire to explode because of the no words.
Like a Beethoven cursed with hearing cured,
like a Cicero cursed with stutter striking,
like Joshua the Warrior without Rahab the Whore.
I roll on my side scooping a palmful of breast
and seeing the mound refuse to come to mouth I guide mouth to the mound.
You incohere, she mumbles, acknowledging the shortcomings of English
when addressing this particular lover,
and moves slightly to allow mouth to better cohere with the mound.
A concise history of humanityís benefactors,
Eve the shy, the lustful, the expelled from
Jesus the Jew, the teacher, the nailed to
Martin the black, the courageous, the murdered by
and none died in their bed,
then I try to run a concise history of humanityís ugly
and have to give up on concise and even on short
and give up. I never give up. I give up.
Someone drew a yellow heart on the pavement.
Cars move left and right in front of my window, excuse me Mr. Car would the alien say.
Shakespeare, did he really write his masterpieces, I wish I had a time machine.
Everyone wishes he had a time machine. Or she. Or it.
Yes, it, dogs trees tables. There is a crumb on the table.
Incohere, sure, easy for you, you sleep with your breast in my mouth,
I am the one with my mouth around your breast
trying to make sense of the world, of his world,
of dogs and trees and tables. There is a crumb on the table.
I donít think I had any infected mushrooms at dinner.
Last time it was a year ago.
And it was not mushrooms, it was asparagus.
And it was not infected, just over-boiled. A dog barks.
You pull your breast away from my mouth, it is stained red and blue
you put the other breast in my mouth,
you donít even have the decency to wake up for the transfer
just pop out pop in of its own volition like a glass roving over an Ouija table
singing songs a dead Elvis never sang but would have wished to.
Or da Vinci. If he was a singing performer the way he was a painting performer
no one would have remembered him,
arts and their built in cruelty
some residued (yeah, trying to say leaving residues),
some ignored, forgotten, puff, snubbed, like never was,
I moan pitifully and pitilessly and full of self pity.
Self pitying again? she asks. She still doesnít wake up.
It is like she had an automated answerer in her mouth
triggering on certain cues without waking up its mistress.
Hey, wake up, I want to shout, I want to make love,
but I cannot shout with a mouth full of delicious meat, or flesh, or nipple or whatever...
I scold at a dead moth hanging upside down from an invisible thread
on a long deserted spider web.
Maybe the spider is dead by now too. Maybe if I bite your nipple. No reaction,
spider or woman human.
Damn Morpheus and his panacea to all humanís ills.
I try to take leave but the breast follows me... hey, itís alive! itís alive!
Where are you going? she asks, still sleeping. Miracles of women lovers.
There are no miracles of male lovers. Smaller breasts.
True, there is compensation, and she grabs the compensation. Women lovers, ha.
Even asleep. She snores. Incomprehensible. Better said she incomprehenses,
yes, new word, what the hell, Iím poet... or shall I say I poet? being poetical and shit.
I sit up. I refuse to have my life dictated by a breast in my mouth. I sit up.
She faces me. Lying on her side, asleep.
Breast falling on breast.
I try to push the top one up but it falls again. I wonder if it is gravitation.
What else, I wonder. Stop wondering, I stop wondering.
The skyline of her body far from shaped after my rib.
Rather shaped after my dream, my incoherence, my desire,
my mushroom slash asparagus induced hallucinations.
I touch her ankle with my finger. She shivers. Even the dead moth seems to shiver,
even the room, the building. I donít know about the continent,
I donít care. Why do you shiver?
I let my finger trail up towards the side of her knee
is it the same shiver, maybe there is a continent wide earthquake?
along the side of her thigh,
her thighs squeeze together trying to take control, I wish they would part
trying to take control,
I reach the place where I wish she would turn on her back
with my finger keeping position,
wishes, wishes... wishes again? She doesnít turn on her back
and my finger descends towards her waist parting upwards again
along her rib cage.
Iím fat, the dinosaur mumbles and all I can feel are bones
and skin and muscles and tendons and fangs
biting small pieces off the tip of my finger
and I donít remember when it was I found my way into the lair
and my finger between its jaws
when she shakes her mane... she? her?...
and turns on her back... her?...
before she... she?... starts doing something with her thighs,
with my spine, with our bodies,
her... love, I whisper, looking upwards at the dangling moth,
this poem is still classified general public.
Love, she whispers back, her actions moving into indescribable though
if I wanted I could probably fit description to fiction,
love, then it is probably high time for you to stop writing