Opus,
Story teller, oh weave me the things that are meant to be love.
So that I may carry
it down from a tack upon the
wall, and tarry with it long in the
streets and hold signs for
the coming of doom..
The end is nigh.
Oh yes, the end is nigh to knee high,
across the state lines, waiver, there. do you see? where the agreement has been broken
nay,
impeded upon.
Let us not show a fraction of reaction,
for this triangular
six pronged piece of fever..
Show us,
Opus..
or do you sleep as an opossum,
during the day with yr tail
swinging from an unreachable branch.
YOU TOLD US IT WAS EDEN!
You told us to bare fruit,
not waste it,
with dreams of knowledge.
No those are awarded posthumously,
medals of something more lost than gained,
or something gained while lost..
or a gain from loss.
Tell us,
an Opus of the free uniformed way you slid into a pair of jeans,
a new job, a new place, a new husband, a new wife, a new car, a new dog, a newspaper; and saw the words
LOVE
in big bold print
on the front page,
with the footer reading:
AWARDED POSTHUMOUSLY
we are given everything at death's door, but a chance to hold onto
love.
a chance to taste sweet cherry lips, to stare into sea green eyes and not drown but drift along waves of emerald isles-far off shores, coasting along the sierra Iris; writing an Opus about the shimmer in her radiant-red hair. Her honey-dew voice, her melt butter glances that make you giddy like the first time you knew a man was a man and a woman was something far more exquisite and endearing and safe.
yes, these are left from the contract.
yr obligation is due.
yr time is needed.
yr wait is over.
yr list, should be short and sweet, but long and poetic.
it must meet no guidelines for pantamiter,
or have any sense of social generalities.
in fact, the word genre, should be expelled from yr bowels
along with the last gasp of life,
before you sign this letter.
to you,
love-
i am the owner of a 6 pronged heart.
A 6 + r
i ng
CIRCUS
of empathy, lust, hate, loneliness, humor and blindness.
yes,
awarded after simultaneous deaths on one eve to another holiday
to a christening of sorts, the likes of which are barbwire and nails,
poppies and rhododendrons, cut up messes in cardboard greeting cards,
like the ass hanging from a mailbox you once sent me.
yes, i fell infatuated with death, before i knew of you
love.
and there is no more painful death that watching love suffer.
but alas,
we are only made whole by our obligations
are we not?
those to linger in ethereal misunderstanding, a green nauseous cloud, that soaks up the ounce of strength we should show in death's face
LOVE!
AH
THERE
YOU
ARE!
the green! those eyes! Those that bare my direction like Khlebnikov's sails .
Yes, I remember now;
when I first attempted to really describe you adequately.
that smooth, marble coating that filled my belly and shined from my throat..
like plums, like white noise, like an billowing flame brought down from a lightning bolt ill-timed and misplaced!
Holder! You are..Keeper- the spark!
ah yes, I see you now. Yes you, love; a rare cerulean ruby sinking into a black, murky space of blood & beat.
I would dive after you into the farthest depths, no concern for health. Full-up lungs.
right above a watery grave, 6 to 60 fathoms deep.
a marred outlook,
a crutch that you bare. a scare that has never left. an Opus,
I can write; adequately.
