after Phyllis Webb
so you know . . . i’m light wrecked . . . right?
your preference . . . a watchtower’s distance.
but radio frequencies blip you back as silence.
i, your wish—genie . . . never will. never will know you.
but what do these Rioja indulgences matter?
Lorca’s Duende and i murder the dregs.
i gave you the popped evidence, didn’t i?
signed an earl’s name for a felled angel?
what unkernels me is this:
you’re an apocalyptic popper.
we dared claim each other’s ballads.
and this is how we remain : sugar pop.
after Réné Daumal
we’ve acted out a night of serious drinking.
we’ve had symbolically authentic non-euclidean adventures in mountain climbing.
we’ve embroidered the earth’s mantle.
we’ve ascended mount analogue.
we’ve harmonized to the tune of carbon tetrachloride.
we’ve been highly flammable in enclosed spaces.
we’ve liberated our silks in the dark and let our voices sway.
we’ve held on with our little hands and our teeth and the smalls of our feet touching.
we’ve committed acts of tongue and torso.
we’ve exchanged silence for silence.
we have died because we lacked desire.
we have died because we desired to become