Monday, September 5, 2016

It’s true I never write, but I would gladly die with you.
Gladly lower myself down alone with you into the enormous mouth
that waits, beyond youth, beyond every instant of ecstasy, remember:
before battle we would do each other’s makeup, comb each other’s
                   hair out
saying we are unconquerable, we are terrible and splendid—
the mouth waiting, patiently waiting. And I will meet you there
                   again
beyond bleeding thorns, the endless dilation, the fire that alters
                   nothing;
I am there already past snowy clouds, balding moss, dim
swarm of stars even we can step over, it is easier this time, I promise—
I am already waiting in your personal heaven, here is my hand,
I will help you across. I would gladly die with you still,
although I never write  
from this gray institution. See
they are so busy trying to cure me, 
I’m condemned—sorry, I have been given the job
of vacuuming the desert forever, well, no more than eight hours 
                   a day.
And it’s really just about a thousand miles of cafeteria; 
a large one in any event. With its miniature plastic knives,
its tuna salad and Saran-Wrapped genitalia will somebody 
                   please
get me out of here, sorry. I am happy to say that
every method, massive pharmaceuticals, art therapy 
and edifying films as well as others I would prefer
not to mention—I mean, every single technique
known to the mouth—sorry!—to our most kindly
compassionate science is being employed 
to restore me to normal well-being 
and cheerful stability. I go on vacuuming
toward a small diamond light burning 
off in the distance. Remember 
me. Do you
remember me?   
In the night’s windowless darkness
when I am lying cold and numb 
and no one’s fiddling with the lock, or 
shining flashlights in my eyes,
although I never write, secretly 
I long to die with you,
does that count