Ecclesiastic lovemaking
this morning
I think of basilicas
& thyme in other eras
thoughts
thalassic
I’m thirsty for
balconies, dawns, anything
that
churches
the unimaginable.
*
Some nights I’m handsome
most nights I’m frantic
at night I watch the foxes
from my window
rummaging through the garbage bins
at the back of the building complex
every night they come
famished for love
so aloud
I watch and I am not myself—
in the mornings I write.
*
I know love
only when I write.
I get lost in my apartment
won’t worry about the world
I forget life
then the bomb drops then the
storm comes love arrives on
tanks
one dawn
with your gaze galvanic
limerence factory you
blitzkrieging flower you
erotic shrapnel
pervading my skin from
everywhere
welcome, grenade
I love lost wars.
*
Your body is a fresco
of the night
my body is the body of a poet
it tastes of bitter and elitist
I can make you a woman*
I can command sadness
I am a writer, I know how to
summon your love, I do
*
When you drop
into my field of vision
choicest
making your
appearance
the choreographer of my thought
riots
frantic the magic
fountains of Montjuïc erupt LSD
trips eating the moon chopped &
squeezed in your palm like
a canary
all the tired poem crafters of the world
massacred, stygian red splattered a
Pollockesque bloodbath, bliss
& I am spelled
by your legs that turn teetotum-like
and words leaving bodies planetary
revolving
*
Time is nothing, Henry repeats to Clare and
time is nothing, I repeat to you and
to me, mostly, to believe it; are
we story, breathes a you in my
bed in my
ear
like an acrostic
*
Metafictionally,
I marry you the 3rd day I see you
and the 4th, on a Joan Miró
now, you sitting there stirring hurricanes in a cup
and I standing here with the sun staining my glasses
caricatured
by time
*
Pushing poems
online doesn’t matter
nor all else;
I dream of Saadi
breathing, dance to Ottoman &
Smyrnean songs on YouTube, as I
return a late ladybug present
to the night ferocious looping out my
window I am think
ing of you fall
ing into the camera wonderment
of you,
a bite
to sink my teeth deep into
the
sun I speak
of things
that die, I
go
where love
calls like a blind photographer like
smoke evicted from the mouth like
the shadow of a plane
t.
*particularly in this verse, if not everywhere, you refers to poetry. I don’t believe anyone can make someone else a woman or a man, whatever that means.

Kandinsky – Composition VII