Let’s string the syllables freely, intangibly,
silently, for a perpetually stoned monarch
of moribund and infinitely beautiful, infinite
hopelessness; wonderless and sated, in a sated land,
under a forever starred sky…
I deplore the intricacy of the stars.
My tears efface them from the tablet of night . . .
I pray for the air to be love.
And then, to my gladness,
sultry women,
goddesses and cold beauties,
comfort my emergency,
suffuse me with their pity,
with a mother’s priceless sigh.
Wash the glass casing of my heart
with the love of words, and bleed dark,
purple wine over my child body.
Then I resurrect, still-souled and titillated
by the universe’s enigmas.
I am emboldened for cosmic thrill;
inebriated, a reality captivates me with
its abstract, violet-colored scent.
I become one of the wall-eyed, lost men who
eternally search for their way in the city’s maze.
Cocaine thieves beyond either fear or hope.
Free to rove and live illegally,
denizens of a realm once or twice
removed from the ordinary world where
consequences of actions mean you are
frail, systematized by gravity.
I do not last long in the maze . . .
It spits me out and I return, alas, to regular life.
I am programmed differently than
I had anticipated.
I am tied up with the Dream and
I am hungry to record a lazy god’s
footprints
forever.
But I am also bursting at the seams of
my subtle body. I want to ride
with the wall-eyed men.
A raw child, I want poetry’s
direct action
I want to fall lawless into the night, where the city
intersects with the underworld —
adumbration of heaven.
I will not have so many
experiences such as these
in this life . . .
But all shall be reconciled and forgotten if
I can dine with Rimbaud in paradise
in the end . . .
Lift the brimming cup to my lips . . .
And receive the immortal gift . . .
No more words will have to spill.
All music and letters will flow
redundantly from here forward . . .
because I will have attained
the empyrean
of realities . . .