Tuesday, September 6, 2016

177. Stubble on Adonis

The Magic of a
Body
is
self-made

lifting,
cardio,
jumping
rope;

so the stage is
also
craft:

sforzando,
cantabile,
da capo al
fine:

words and terms
and
counting
calories:

yet why is
magic
Magical?

Thursday, September 1, 2016

176. Toronto Half-Life

sketches of a relationship between _______

I – јабука

Beauty is a liquid gold –

The sun is
on you or –
you
are
the sun!

Gilt, your
silver hairs
glisten, caught like
rare riches
in a sea of ebony – every
marble Hercules
and god
incarnated.

my fingers burn
at the
paper
cup;
tongue burns
at the
apple
brew

I have nowhere
but to
melt,
gold glistening
everywhere,

You
Alone
shine
with its
molten glow - !

II - ноћ

breath crystallized in
the crisp, late
night:
ears still ring
with chords and
trills and
fioratura - mine,
at least –

Light meets
window;
glass meets
the
eyes:

Feet crunch on the
carpet;
soft as the
grudging
snow:

keys -

checks for
company –

it’s dark out the
window, but
lights poke the
tender
sky;

I am seeing,
seeing:
couch, table,
television;

there’s a
hallway,

and there are
rooms:

there is a
computer and a
swivelly chair and
a mattress with
a wolf blanket,
it’s mildly juvenile,
but
adorable –

embarrassed, expectant –
I’m not sure how I
should respond –

he has prickly pins
blacking out at
me

I ask to kiss him

he blinks,
bewildered, surprised
as we meet
eyes
again

like an animal,
a toddler, seeing for the
first time:
this adorable
mountain of a
man

I am moving,
shifting already

The lips linger on
me, until it
forms in speech:

in that moment
your petulant eyes
implore me to stay

and yet the
briefness, chasteness
of those hushed and
starry-eyed, unhurried moments
haunts
me

warmed me
in that still slowly blossoming spring

snow did not cover

the barefaced
sidewalk

we walked in
silence, the
lamplights smiling

two figures
splotching their
pristine
path –

III - јутро

From 21 stories high,
they form a
metropolitan fugue
below:
a sea of swishing
Doppler effects,
a griddle of frying
vehicles –

The tender spring sun
pours onto my
curious skin:
light pours on
everything –
the buildings, the
people, the
roads:

still amongst the
weekend traffic,
breakfast
sounds from the other
room:

frying, cutting,
tinkling,
splashing –

footsteps plod toward:

they slow as they reach me

and with your eyes,
glancing over an
already tried and
familiar
view,

mine –
fervent, young
join years,
and we walk together,
sun over everything –
the cups, the plates, the
cutlery,
as we smile,
and
eat.

IV - плажа

Blaring from the
studded sea:
yachts aflame with
spinning bodies,
booming pop;

it is a scene from
Michael’s Marble Shop gone
wrong: rejects
happly tanning in the
breeze

photo-strown,
his perfect specimen
lies before
me

he smiles,
not of joy, not of
mirth –

of self-
satisfaction

seagulls squawk the
brazen azure
canopy,
the fizzing beer
laughs below;
photos kiss my
dewy skin –

magnetized:
I cannot

look away
from –

you are opening your
perfect, perfect
mouth –
a word
forms – !

V - Зелен

My mind in
yours:

Hand,
smooth as marble and
warm as the
hearth;
black prickles kiss my
tender
skin –

in the darkness,
the dull
thudding of the
green-and-white
rustles through the
night

we aren’t alone,
but very well as may be:

our muted whispers
dissolve into contented silence, listening
to our few neighbours,
their
moonlit chatter
evaporating
in favour of our
bliss in shared tenderness,
two hands
in harmony, in
unison.

I lean towards you:
I am loved,
safe.

VI - сив

Air thick with
pungent, stifling
gas;

pigeons lick
splattered oil spots
on splotchy asphalt

sometimes sun
glistens on the
buildings
nearby

sometimes we are
grateful the rain exists
outside the
terminal
boundary;

so many hours of
lungs
filling with
cubes of noxious
fumes; time spent so
mundane, so
ornery –

in a time before
and
after, it’s
strange to
be here
alone –

yet the air is
still thick
and the
pigeons lick
splattered
oil
spots;

and time treads
on, lungs
fill and
empty;
buses fill and
fill.

VII - терминал

You are

thirty million feet
away:

I try not
to touch
you

cold, calm,
and unchanged,
oxygen and
napkins lie
between us,

only –
May-time
light between is now an
autumnal grey:
and windows
eavesdrop
with corporate
glints in
tinted
eyes

When we are here again,
I turn without a
word.
I am so angry, so
proud.

I see you
saunter away through the dashboard
as usual,
lonesome and
unafraid -
it is the Last Time
we will huddle in the
fumes of the
terminal.

I yearn for
the sun-scented
oxygen of
our
shared summer,
and the quiet of your
hand in mine
in the
gentle darkness:

It has been long
since my eyes smiled
into yours so
tenderly;

these are now eyes
which know
these gold-gilt dreams
spin further backward, backward,
as I spin forward,
remembering,
in spite of
me.

Monday, February 1, 2016

175. Cash or Debit

Time is a shameless
measure:
no returns and
no
exchanges:
final
sale.

Like a
holiday tape wrapping
gift
by
gift,
the holly pattern
always

Sitting on a shelf,
observing
the darkness
of
neglect

A fate
to
pity, of
senseless
indifference

or perhaps to
covet,
eternal and
proudly
beyond,
spinning mutely

We cannot see its
end,
only –
think we
do:

cut short,
it
proceeds –
old gifts and
memories
remain;
undying,
unreturned,
dust-collecting and
sitting unblinking,
unremembering