Something from nothing

Howling...
my heart leaks through hole in my head
from crack created by baking sun…
too much sun, all this sun.

I have found memories, from the future,
of finding you.
Found you, similitude
found you, found praxis...
in the bright sun, too much sun.

The things that no one else gets to hear
I whispered to you without words
tongue to tongue.
We became shapes together
a primal scene witnessed by
my passive child heart.

I was sucking your tongue,
“Nothing comes from nothing.”
was your secret farewell…indefinitely along.
You see people as mass produced objects
You're a pastiche of affections…of affectations!
I stand for…I humanize your secondary gain…
your reaction formation.

I stand for my human eyes,
you’re a misery of indecision.
What makes you think I care? I think.
I had to kill you…
I blew off your head
with definite smoothness
bits of you on my best shirt.

In my dark city/forest
soft moonlight rains...
rainlight steams.
On my roof, describing your beautiful body
to myself, I burst into tears…
and the wolves are still.
Deskilled and distant, you are telescopic
a dot…a period.

From my roof , cold city stares at me,
at my something from nothing.
In the rain I turn off the moon
hide the rivers, mountains, and trees
of the forest/city and live with ghosts.
In the dark I feel myself
self knowledge, self mastery.
The wolves listen to my howl
and understand with primal piety,
as the cool rain soothes
baking sun.

59th street stop

It was there in that metal car and its
hissing, squeaking, creaking and clunking
that I saw you, my friend.

You, framed in a Plexiglas window
like a work of art... surrounded by
New York rush hour.

New York rush of, the business man with his heavy brow and heavy case, who wipes his spotted tie. The mother and her fatherless children, the ones with the corn rowed hair and brightly colored plastic hairclips on the ends. The Columbia student that make dumb when an elderly lady stand next to him, he sit and read his Nietzsche-his Hiedegger-his Dostoevsky, (whichever). Surrounded by the chatter- No, the jabber of voices of the fittest (are these really the fittest that have survived?). “Middle of the day Drunk” drag queens undressing you with their coaled eyes, as their tasteless thoughts spiral out of their glittered lips, and you smile that smile that make even sober drag queens want to eat you up.

You smile genuinely, candidly, kindly with your whole face...especially your eyes, as a golden baby with the same golden hair as yours, looks at you from between the long legs of latin lads, points and sez’ “Daddy.” Young father wishing it were you instead of him, young mother thinks the same, her face in a shy smile, looking at you with a blush. And you smile that smile of yours when you look up and out of the window of that subway car and spot me looking back at you, grinning. School girls erupt in laughter, their knees touch each other as their skinny legs bend, when the merciless doors of the car cleft through those who are on, and those who are not. You lip, “call me”, and make a mime telephone with your hand (or was it, “I’ll call you” and a banana symbol?...not sure).

You smile that smile as the train buckles, chugs, and sways away,
and on that rushed afternoon,
of a rushed city,
of a rushed life
that passing smile
felt like...peace.