on THE TRAVELOGUE OF AN IMMOBILE NOMAD, pt. two
Rains of whiskey and reading the shadows of leaves against the sky, taking train lines to colors that only cats & wizards are able to see. You thought you were home. You were not home. You have no home. You have to home. More easily acted than not, each drip now is being taxed, like orgasms. Like what it means to know failure and, in spite of one’s self, survive.
The ARK/HIVE writhes all around you, a pale limp cyst blowing kisses hind your back. You attempt to grope and instead just sink lower, lower. Your tower is struck by the sun’s lightning, teeth raining out of your mannequin mask. Fucking asshole. Your mysticism hobbles onward. The shore undoes itself, my dear vessel. Far off, the sound of an iceberg crashing through the desert, shattering to make a pyramid. Your very own sense of unbecoming. Gross.
Go to sleep little bay-bay, and pray to the sea you will not wake up raped, will not see the whale with the face carved out. Tie to your lamp the rope, the first & only braided cord. Leave behind your suit of meat and cease, now, lying to yourself in the dark about what isn’t there. The will not to be alone is howling in the sound.
The scorpion drives its splinter over & over between its own eyes. After so long prying it out and now now coughs uncomfortably. The book. The sky. The bone. Reading in the smoke of our collective cigarette the fates curling forward. Can I have a kiss? you ask. Famous, as you know, last words.
The poet considers his clothes, miraculously dry. Taking the same oaths each day by do-over. Still, THE TRAVELOGUE OF AN IMMOBILE NOMAD is not far off. Not a dread-book of noise. Still being born in fluid needing not to ruin. Nothing, lovely, rotten. We’ll spread wings soon and then, once more, figure which step first. Assuming, that is, a floor. Or else.
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