Friday, April 27, 2012

fascism (always comes for love)

fascism (always comes for love)

fascism always comes for love
fascists know that lovers always win every battle

the dictator’s mask and bellicose uniform
and fist pounding pleas for patriotism

are mere fanfare and arm-waving distraction
because words and allegiances pale mightily

against the pull of the heart and bone-deep
commitment that dulls all political fervor

lovers will sacrifice almost anything
in quest of rendezvous or tobetogether

their ears hearing only the voice of the other
their fingertips aching to be pressed just so

while the petty marshaling of troops and tanks
disappear in the edges of their lips-pressed gaze

fascism spawns marriagefidelity, and monogamy
to erase the flush of lovers being lovers—because

fascism always comes for love
fascists know that lovers always win every battle

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

there is this thing of us and always (the indelible)

there is this thing of us and always (the indelible)

“I have not betrayed Julia,” he said.
O'Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. “No,” he said; “no; that is perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.”
1984, George Orwell

“And anyone who/Tried to deny you must be out of their mind”—
“Green Eyes,” Coldplay, A Rush of Blood to the Head

when the rats come for me
strapped in cages to my face

and commanded to eat my tongue
and feast finally on my eyes

i will not deny you in word or deed
and even if they pick me bone-clean

there is this thing of us and always
that can never be erased by such fascism

but this is no declaration of a martyr
nothing about heroism or righteousness

this is the naked facing of the indelible
that forces gravity to bow and oceans to calm

Monday, April 23, 2012

writer hermit vampire (artifice is a testament)

writer hermit vampire (artifice is a testament)

“She is enough.”—Harry Mitchell to David Norris, Adjustment Bureau (2011)

You're all humming live wires under your killing clothes.
Get over here, I wanna kiss your skinny throat—
“Wasp Nest,” The National, Cherry Tree

i am a writer
i am a hermit
i am a vampire

oh, yes, sure,
i may fall in love with the scent of you

noi will fall in love with you
and you’ll feel the weight
of an ocean’s tide and Siren’s song

and when we are lying together
and i am rubbing my face and lips
across the curve of your thigh

inhaling and tasting the skin of you
as you arch your back and reach for me
i will be only partly there—thinking

what is this like?

drifting as i always do
as i always will
into me and the possibility of words

you will believe your legs wrapped around me
like a wedding band have pulled me home

you will offer your skinny throat only for me
to bury my fangs—to drink deep and true

and there will be times i press my mouth to your neck
after whispering in your ear as we lie entwined and hushed
tell me you want me” to feel your words vibrate on my lips

i am one to taste and swallow your desire whole

but this writer’s love is permanently ephemeral
the love of a hermit anxious to be alone
the love of a vampire bound to the night

a wordsmith builds his fortress with words
and wields metaphors like a crucifix and Apotropaic garlic

and then i see you
caught outside
on a brisk, windy spring day
wearing inadequate sandals

and my mind spins
a quilt of words
to warm you in my hands
my face pressed to cool skin

artifice is a testament, you see,
and i believe in always you