Twenty Tattoos
“Misspelled lives—their beauty lingers like tattoos”
Prison, Tomas Tranströmer
I asked you not to hurt me
the way history did
asked you if the moon will expire
if a helicopter and a bomb will fall again
if the light posts will light up, if we will find
what starves the lonesome inside
the years we weren’t allowed to enter
the mind we weren’t permitted to unpack
you played Haydn because Tomas did
joked that there’s freedom in the afterlife
and I fell in your eyes to find
the perfect somewhere
I wanted the bird in your chest
the bird on the balcony you tried
but couldn’t get rid of
so you wrote about longing
stole a secret from the bird, then asked
if it knew the meaning of time
and if beauty will only survive
if we stay misspelled
Jesus Hung the River
You get to watch triple x
and I get to sing the blues
You get to wear a jumper
and I a fuchsia skirt
You get to smoke a pipe
I get to screw with what gleams
You get to spell Amen
I get to spell Adieu
You get to cut your stanza
I get to cut the exit line
No chasing or escaping
the degrees of fever
in our vocal cords
So let’s wear our polka-dot shirt
and make sure we save
our alphabet in a safe place
because here no one walks straight lines
or slow dances
no one understands
what avant-garde means
or follows the clock
disobeys compulsions
or keeps refrains
that grow shades of black
or collects miles of prehistory masks
Here everyone carefully pick the nouns
they will use later
because look who hung the river
A New Era in Space
Some call it heaven,
others a cheap place to fanaticise
where bets are made—
gladiators versus barbarians—
by those who
carry their cell phones to the toilet,
only permit barbecues
and country music,
leave the engine
of their Mustangs on
and tell their women:
Honey, I got a mean soul,
sleep with me anyway,
heaven cost nothing
when hell's not around.
I never could but I did.
You see,
I needed my body
to resurrect in their borders—
there are beauties we
can’t inhabit immediately
like the stars the moon the universe,
places that force us to draw
a knot to our names
so we can better understand
what it means to hesitate.
Submarine
You trip over a cold wind
but you have no part in cursing the moon
You trade your honor for her love
but have nothing to do with kinky motels
You listen to Tom Waits
and deliver your twisted heart
haunted by wild daisies
to some higher divine
You throw God out the window
swallow some feel good pills
recite word for word
the sermon you heard at City Lights
You pour fame on her body
(can’t hold her back in your breath)
and call another lover to forget your pain
You walk to every parlor
then tend to your toothache
to the memory of your mother
with another man
that numbed you forever
You look around for another bay
but damn it—realize—
you can’t love underwater
Polka dot photo: Cheryl / CC BY-ND