I was trying hard to cling to some other thought but don’t think there’s some- thing moving thru us but rum- ored sounds lost at the ends of lines.
I mean I can’t find the pen to say where it hurts
still— I can’t transmit anything the world has to say or resist clinging to this
Shit, I mean I’d do anything to save you from the world too—
awful this won’t count.
I mean this won’t count as a part of all the glam- Our songs need but poetry distorts pain-
ting can’t cover the force which de- scribes our state of longing
even when the longed for long gone— A sorrow never parts from its content. I can’t say what breaks feel- ing or say it won’t break in the margins
—yet it persists.
I wanted to write myself away and back to you. 4
This morning I dreamt out loud I thought only to be in love tonight less I know how to be- come lost—
in the present all the words come out all wrong.
Dreams under- stand the heart breaks, poems ruin more than I ever like—
this poem falls short of singing and feeds the things I can’t be-
Longing to hear a single vowel of yer name
—before all names for you lost.
What standard affirms this poem won’t count what really means nothing
but debris of a past thought ends like dawn sucked me slow sounds pretty sad and nice.
I mean it reflects what this can’t mean— what’s in mind never transcends
what’s spoken if no one hears it sung.
Hush, nothing fails unless you see it vanish. 7
Once a little singing mean- ing nothing if
—they’re all dead. 8
Who isn’t trying to glimpse the horror to record the sounds we know of love?— mere hopes spill over
in a word with- out a site for us to share this fate- less song.
Let’s be done with all this singing finally
undo me with yer body so I can caress yer tender cores.
I’m making this in a little room where I know nothing
more than yer bedpost and bone.
Our merging flesh fills this space with a neon fire. I can’t catch a breath still
—Come smoke me with yer body, hang me in the cool street mist where lost souls hide behind the porn shop by the beach.
O starry night sent- ence me to real love which haunts all places and binds our little parts of speech with a little thisness.
See I’m still a sap for the real thing
—still I know it must end if we’re having fun.