Wednesday, July 01, 2009
You had to learn to ask
to find a way
to ask, but not with words:
Indirectly and usually
was how you asked.
If the person said yes, you’d
know because suddenly you’d
be doing it:
Mixing streams that connected
parts inside of you,
like an internal
marionette, your lips
to your crotch,
skin to your heart – Oh
how the kisses pulled
in new ways, Oh
how the kisses changed
everything. How high
the stakes became,
by which I mean the losses,
by which I mean
those who you wanted
but could not have – sometimes
because the asking went wrong,
because you spoke different languages.
But remember those
times when it worked out:
How you got the asking
right, how perfectly indirect
by which I mean, direct
you were, how directly
understood, directly accepted,
How the moment before this kiss
a faith --
Remember the strings’ quake,
And how for weeks
you were knotted inside
did we ever walk
when we were like that,
and Do we ever come
Monday, March 02, 2009
the judge is out and the jury sits in the big chair with a mallet
and pounds little birds into the woodwork
please! duct tape my heart to the inside of my head!
turn my skin inside out, maybe then, maybe then
clara barton will run away!
i dare you! look away from that cancerous dance in a box,
look me in my eye
and oh! how our insanity shall multiply!
do you feel it? the creeping madness?!
the hurtling stone in the heart, the bitter sneer of the lip
the excrement of a thousand subconscious lusts tingling in your toes!!?
and i will kick and kick and maybe finally, finally
my foot will fly off and land on the boardroom table,
and the moldy beasts with their black leather briefcases
will shrink back in terror while i hop to the kitchen to get a bagel
but oh! my love! if you read this will you still put my head on your heart?
will you still kiss my neck, run your hand down the appalachia of my ribs
lightning! make me your mistress, we will find electric pleasures in the angry clouds
and i will hide in the forest when the sun comes home from work!
don't look! don't look! don’t look to the sea!
for salt and spray have betrayed you and me
and our boat's beams are made of bones
i am but a stone's throw from the chains of the sane—
thank god there are only boulders here.
Dan Wagner is a human being of eighteen years. He lives in Hamburg, PA. He writes poems and songs and takes pictures. email@example.com
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