jayivan

Hangman, take care!—you
misplace the letters on which
your hollow life stands

I conflate the giver and the given:
the death bed beneath your head,
bound up within the surface of sleep,
the brain aweep

the ties that bind, them-
selves, things untethered, silted
ribbons, tied in bows.

Loosen that gripped fist!
The diamond is safe. But oh,
your sweet coal is gone!

Do not speak of love—
anything but that distant
moon, faceless, weightless,

Wasted and pox marred.
Do not speak at all, the words
empty themselves fast.

a deaf orchestra
paints white noise on white canvas

The Hideous Specific
clouds the vagueries which lie
at truth’s empty core

To pick a flower—
pinch the the stalk
between thumbnail and fingertip,
catch the freed bud in palm,
and place in glass vase,
on dinner table
or den table
or bed stand—
a piece of beauty all your own
an innocent thievery.

But you are not innocent,
and I cannot forgive you.

You do not pick flowers.
You rip the garden by its root
and salt the earth with your evil eye;
you dispose of flowers in trash cans
and toss rendered grease on top,
and return to your underground lair
to sweep and clean and scour the filth from the outside world seeped in,

never clean since it was never dirty.

I would have compassion for you,
but it is my passion you have gutted:
sweep all you will—

the stains of innards splain
are all you left me as remains.

Fit to flip these lips

cross hips that grip