source sink transfer
There is always a source
a mode of energy transfer
there is always a target
the dry yellow man intoned
as he chalked
upon a greenish blackboard.
That four-hundred person physics class.
Maybe it was a target of me,
my fresh slouching body
in that cold creepy auditorium.
I was only beginning; firm like fruit
belief that I had four-hundred targets
to send energy towards, not dreaming,
(quite like a physicist in that)
I was there to receive. 402.
Staying In to Read Lolita
I had a dream that the world was covered in colosseums
We must eat these colosseums! It is our right and quo!
shouted the people from the gray mountain-tops.
I hid from their big gray teeth in the library, where a broad-chested boy
was reading by the gold streaming sun like an angel
What are you reading? I asked, looking up at his massive face
and its corona of sunlight that could never be eaten
Lolita, said the angelic boy. Maybe you will be able to someday.
I left the library to find Lolita because beautiful boys
stared at her like she was an angel. Meanwhile, the whole world was being eaten by fat
fat fat fat people. Stop! I yelled. You will ruin my Lolita with your quo and your
extra assumed rights with ketchup! I looked up at the balcony,
Sisyphus was watching me intently, like he wanted to remove all of my clothes
eyes boring into my bare shining back. I couldnt tell much or see where he was
the stagelights were too bright white and my eyes puffed shut,
I dreamed I was allergic to stage makeup.
I walked around the world looking for wahing water and Lolita, grinding through the steps
like I did so many times for the beautiful blonde girl, so Matt could escape with her friend.
I drove her home, her hair was a real mess from dancing but she tried to fix it while she drove
around around the the little spinning world that was still being eaten by giant gray robots wildly
and in a pretend still place I found a freshly printed copy of Lolita in the lamplight
I fell away from the blonde girl’s bedside, she called me from her door.
Lolita is blank! I shouted to her All white pages!
and the walls and floors all disappeared from the maze, bending out into the dark
To stop crying she ate the Eiffel Tower, blowing her nose on Downy Extra Soft Tissues because they soaked up emotion like they mopped up what was left of the earth.
Lolita was blank, all white pages, and at the end of the semester I fell into that whiteness
I cant stand dark bedrooms, I cant stand yellow lamps.
In my dream, I ran back to the library and fucked an angel.
A Moment of Blossoming Peace
I hold his shoulders again.
He rests a cut elbow on my mantel
a carefully pressed
rolled-up sleeve, and pouring from it
a dark ugly, a scab
pouring from underneath it
onto my mantel.
I hold his shoulders carefully
after the man who shook them.
We talk about history
many evenings in my living room.
He comes and goes, as do I
We talk about stocks
many evenings in my living room.
The well-starched man stops resting his elbow on my mantel
I don’t hold shoulders anymore, carefully
although my hands have since found themselves
in well-pressed pinstripe pockets.
Men with pens say new scars
are raw pink
But I see pale purple
a lilac uncurling over the elbow
that no longer rests on my mantel.
