TornThe internet’s all show, no actual cunnilingushas transpired between us. This has beensmoke signals from eye to eye. And justlike the telegraph, the telephonegave us a means to the ends of stayingever closer to home, ever fartherfrom the ear we’d dot-dashor whisper into, what a sad storyfor flesh, marooned. First by the womb,then the word traveled fast and freeof lips, now your hips can thrivein my brain without entering my life.I might as well be on the moon.The evolution of communication’sto mythologize togethernessas we drift entropically apart.That’s what the kidscall a thesis statement. But godyou’re hot, and your crescendoof breath so fully apesthe real deal, is it possiblewe can be islanded and still cometo prefer absence to presence,the digital to the palpable?I fear the question answers itselfby nodding to the fact that Ican write a poem and you read itwith no hand having touched metalor paper or words that don’t dissolveas soon as a switch is thrown.Half of my soul says, Get used to it.The other million percent begs, Don’t.
In other languages,you are beautiful- mort, muerto- I wishI spoke moon, I wish the bottom of the oceanwere sitting in that chair playing cardsand noticing how famous you areon my cell phone- picture of your eyesguarding your nose and the fireyou set by walking, picture of dawngetting up early to enthrall your skin- what I hateabout stars is they’re not those candlesthat make a joke of cake, that you blow onand they die and come back, and youyou’re not those candles either, how often I realizeI’m not breathing, to be like youor just afraid to move at all, a lungor finger, is it time alreadyfor inventory, a mountain, I have threeof those, a bag of hair, box of ashes, if youwere a cigarette I’d be cancer, if youwere a leaf, you were a leaf, every leaf, as faras this tree can say.
Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love PoemMy left hand will live longer than my right. The riversof my palms tell me so.Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finishat the same time. I thinkpraying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I thinkstaying up and waitingfor paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension thisis exactly what's happening,it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamicsof mournful Whistlers,the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.I like the idea of differenttheres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,a Bronx where people talklike violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehowkind, perhaps in the nookof a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayedanyone. Here I havetwo hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your backto rest my cheek against,your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.My hands are webbedlike the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezedsomething in the wombbut couldn't hang on. One of those other worldsor a life I feltpassing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's bellyshe had to scream out.Here, when I say I never want to be without you,somewhere else I am sayingI never want to be without you again. And when I touch youin each of the places we meet,in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dyingand resurrected.When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,in each place and forever.