Monday, December 08, 2008

One Time Crossing the Desert, Hot Blooded Huitzilopochli Dreamed

I decided to live in the modest
fog I created with my body,
not the hot lights you made
with words. I can never
understand the fragments,
the pain and drugs
lost to the earth
that one day in late August
when I refused to talk to you,
or anyone. If I could
get the solution
to this solitude on the hill,
this gray space
I've built up here to compete
with your tomes, I'd open
a trap-door tone to my work
leading me to a secret
basement, another room
where I hesitate to sit.

I told you my friend
I've gone over to the dark--
the photo record will show
my brightness like
the moon's, but I am
easily obscured. Still, the devil
came in the dark, her
bright body a lie
I accepted in the half
light. I knew
what went on
in every midnight
kitchen where the witches
made the last martinis
and prepared for bed.
I had to let that all
go. It was crazy
but I stopped dreaming
of you and everybody else.
Instead, there are vast
woods unexplored, chasms
and meadows of the heart--
I have taken
supper under great boughs.

When we both
longed for the weather
to change, for a second
home to appear in the Adirondacks,
I made a note of your fancies
hoping you would list
mine in order, like some
kind of chant, like some kind
of ulterior motive, leading
to a small home in the high desert
away from the crowds,
the stacked river rocks and blue
wrought-iron gates
glad to have us
the barmaids across
the highway making
quick notes glad to have us.

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