What the Telegram Said

Now when the days pass around

the corners of stars behind clouds

and the sun levels outs its corners

to make the message more clear

I remember that I've forgotten names

Memory is lucid: faces without names

names without faces, enemies, loves

and what I really meant when I swore

to Edna that her infatuations were

safe enough to hold on while crossing

to death. Prayers are feeble under light

whether the light of Hell or the light of

the levelled-out Sun, and disappointments

are easier with every lonely second in bed. 

But are resurrected ambitions vivid as were

the hopes of salvation of love and do

we forget what we've sworn or prayed

for every time we look into the sun

as does Edna with hers?

Ode to Half Cups of Tea

I have of late
pondered: when did I stop wanting to be president?

when was I from my mother womb untimely ripped?
was it ever timely? how much do you want for bliss?
how much for solitude? how much for the feelings
emancipated from spring clouds after a day in the park?

listen: the silence of things that are bound to happen!
spring comes screaming downhill! terrible lovers! terrible
lovers everywhere! spring blooms everywhere, and with it
the terrible lovers: under the trees, on the hills, in the mirror!

think: what good is a lover who isn't terrified? what good is
a love that does not incur thirst for more? articulate:

words leave your lips, and from your lips into eternity, and
from there into mortality, and from there into the beloved's ears,
and words for a lifetime: for a minute's kiss.

conceive: leaves fall, fall leaves. I saw a street once,
ironically named Heartfelt, just know: there are no Heavens
on Earth -- especially not in apartments. Lenin was fond

of systems; our systems are fond of antitrust; your system
of tender turbulence. Just know: for everything

you do, and I do, there'll be a partner, but
two are done alone:
death and porn.