040615A
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My love for you
was something
that you and I were forbidden
to know anything of.
It created the illusion
of our encounter,
signifying an illusion
of our freedom,
in the illusion
that no one really existed,
or was in any way involved,
as one of the conditions,
of the ongoing siege
that we could never break
even if we existed
as more than illusion
to each other.
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040615B
-----------
I wanted too much
what proved so little
in the midst of their having more.
I wanted something of you
but whatever I could want
was always too much wanting.
Now it is too late to say
that I wanted too much
to not want any more wanting.
It is all about wanting
and that is how we get
to know what we are.
It is all about wanting
desperately to forget
all the wanting that we are.
--------------------------------
040615C
-----------
We are handfuls
of dust
clouding an eternity
of pain.
On the other side
of the mirror,
we are only wounds
and bandages.
I am always
my wanting of you
in the many worlds
where we never meet
We suffer
the persistence
of our make believe,
in an infinite comedy.
We have to learn,
endlessly,
how to laugh about it,
so as to get applause.
--------------------------
040615D
------------
Morning serves to deceive us
into believing
that the darkness is gone.
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040615E
-----------
The rain falls down,
on the let down
pull down
push around world,
telling us
the sky was cut open
and everything crashed
down to earth again,
before the ambulance
came and went.
Everything gets soaked,
bursting apart,
as useless abandon,
turning soft
before it ends up
indecipherable remains,
without distinction,
and merely a stain,
gone illegible
on a dirtied up surface.
It slides across,
the line,
a bad turn
of a greased wheel,
everything well oiled
and clearly meant,
to keep it all moving,
until the next crash
reduces it all down
to a boiling crumple.
Steam rising,
from the giant engines
of industry,
where it all went
straight off the rails,
into jumbled up heaps
of secret code,
sending commands,
to its big guns,
to pound the landscape.
Endless chains
of container cars
rattle and bump,
looking like worry beads
strung together
on a thin thread
of stretched suture,
along a far horizon
where it is all sewn up
into more sacks.
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