from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8
Jocular,
somber,
transcendent–
like a cat
wandering along sill,
eyeing the moon
with wide yellows
and long jowls;
you bleed.
Perch perch.
The Ninth Symphony
crawls into crashing sycophancy-
but only inside your head,
and in the flap flap
of domestic curtain ropes,
golden for you.
Die die.
Snowy Brooklyn hood
beckons
the peninsula’s lusty line
with wind bustling through porches.
Lady Manhattan, stoically xenophobic,
lies still beneath her cloak.
Prospect Park sleeps, as good as dead
hides the sleeping life
in her pillowy bed-
the hipster’s last
premature domestication.
I had a dream once,
this night in fact,
of sitting still
with pomegranate juice
rolling down my chin,
and of little bliss roller coasters
climbing up my brain.
Somber,
transcendent,
fortifying–
ejaculate.
photo by Gia. Prospect Park, Brooklyn. 2004.
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