The only immortality is absence.
—Lyn Hejinian
Pinch my kiss into a flame and let it
swell and sway under the oblong moon.
Find my woozy in your woozy, and be
deliberate about it. Then let’s just sort of
float along, lost halves looking for drama.
How did it happen? In your car, of course,
at 4:30am after dancing abrasively for about
two hours. On the deck of the Walnut after
soaking for about thirty minutes with the
naked hippies. It’s always happening.
It’s always. And we live only in homage.
We live only with one hope: I WILL
become that with which some other that
can collaborate. It’s a pie in the sky
kind of wish, and in the end are we
ever really anything except nothing?
Are we ever really something else?
So. Back to the woozy and to the
fellow I chatted with beforehand.
The one who pointed me in the
direction of the patina that is
this hallucinated night. Were
you pointing indirectly? Are
you satisfied now? Now that
I’m stone, can you carve me
out of this place, set me atop
the least imaginary bluff
you can envision and let me
bake upon it until you decide
what we do in the next chapter?
