Love & Rage
Sitting at a table for twelve on Prince Street,
the clinking of wine glasses punctuating
a din which would dim in spite of itself, eventually.
Bottles of wine confront their emptiness and
weacknowledge that our coming together
is a celebration of our parting.
And friendship, the gentle translucent beast,
easily swollen and easily exhausted,
swimming in the space between the shapes of headlights
on certain expanses of highway,
wrapping around the trunks of trees on
–squeezing tightly brittle bark–
sometimes sipping on the sweat of bed-ridden bodies
tangled by hurricanes of passion and
sometimes stalking the shadows of the lonesome.
Always with its face pressed up against
dark window screens,
the sound of crickets at its back,
chirping with the raucous of long dinner,
the dehydrated crackling of long distance,
cold echoes clanging against the windows of memory,
its slippery skin cloaked in the married mysteries of
serene past and
Soft eyes open, languid tongue folding the word
in innumerable variations,
composing its beautiful language
in the night skies of the human spirit,
the beast draws together constellations,
illuminates our recurring twilights with
the natural light of identity,
raging fires of sentiment,
which gather in points of truth–
moments flaring up out of massive black static
in shapes recognized by explorers of human interaction;
an astrology that is not readily decipherable.
The beast swells and clears clouds,
the pollution of manufactured light,
our complacent trust in the tradition of death,
and it compliments our perspective with the clarity to see it.
And then it grows tired, grows old,
and begs us to follow as it travels the road from
haggard elegance to
our humble human homes.