Concave / Convex
In the glass
stands but a smear
the color my flesh.
Pocked with the same
black hairs, but
in a gentler light,
diffused through the dew
of a steaming shower.
In your glass
must stand a rigid outline.
No approximation.
A mirror image lacking
nothing but
the gentleness of nature,
like the dew
after a cold rain.
Elegy
Boy A is dead.
His body, severed from his mind.
A spiritual lobotomy.
His body walks down an empty street.
It sees the sky on the ground;
all echoing the streetlights.
The sky-made rivers buoy his naked feet
an eighth of an inch
above the knives of asphalt, lusting
after his spoiled flesh.
It trudges on, distracted by the raindrops:
each, a cold wet kiss until
shattering and drifting
down his face like a tear he’s never cried.
His mind is awash in the roar of rivers
and their screams
as storm drains swallow them.
Supposedly, this is the end
of the universe.
His mind imagines it’s a lot like his cigarette smoke
drowning in the rain.
His body is ambivalent,
but prays that the smoke rips through his lungs and
pours from his back,
into fluid wings.
It wants to fly,
and hand deliver prayers.
But really, none of this matters, for
Boy A is dead.
Cashed
Burning—but not like a candle—
thick, green, living
smoky tendrils grab at nerves and
tickle every sense into submission.
Rising like a flower:
soft, green, young
tendrils grab like vines and
roots reach deep into the earth.
Dirtying their fingers,
blank, sweet, young
spit-puffing ash into the air and
watching it fall to the dirt:
submissiveness burning—but not like a candle—
in the knots of nerve tendrils.
So sweet and young and falling
onto the soft ground.
That's it for now. Go watch Adaptation.
1 comment:
i like the line
"Boy A is dead."
among several others.
and your ode to weed is much appreciated.
keep it up
jonathan leibovic
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