Writing Partner
I am guilty of making love to a myth
Proudly painted lies whispered from stage left
I could see the strings, but if I turn up the night
a little darker. Or close my eyes a little tighter
Pray a little harder, maybe
I can believe
what I write
a little more.
Fuck and worship.
Fight and nurture.
The marooned fatness of lips
pressed and bitten
Swollen from swallowing broken folklore.
They said the writing was prone to tangents
as if this life were linear.
We are sprawling, sputtering swipes at cacophony
pinning all our hands can hold against canvas.
Mosaics, you told me
are broken pieces
of what was once whole, now separate
just re-imagined together.
How fun would it be to break the tiles?
The chunks of concrete, slabs of sky,
and then mold the earth with skinny fingers.
Plant skyscrapers and temples
Cup water in palms
The glittered gloss of firmament.
Say: I will rebuild the day
exactly the way I saw it
Inaccurate.
I remember rum and purple smoke
bodies, hungry for a soundtrack
to argue about gods
there was still time to be-
Humbled by a walk through East Liberty
overcast with headphones on
turning words over
trying to find steps to fit the rhythm.
We burn end to end
while winos sing themselves from sober
over the loves they’ve never known.
Readying haphazard
bear-traps to catch infinity
in hopes of swallowing it whole-
No chaser.
Scripture on skylines
scribbled meticulous.
Stories of mortal men
gods told in hieroglyphics
side by side.
Read on pyramids and pharaohs tombs
while children read
their reflections on the walls
of their mothers’ womb. A page torn
from a diary hidden
in the attic. Lyrics to a ballad
lives lived and lost
in translation
My gypsy cuts again.
A hemorrhage
of musical notes pour through
speakers coloring the walls.
This muddled mosaic needs no
explanation of what has been broken
Us, a song of mining the night
Peeling layers off our shadows.
We are built of our parents’ hunger
Alchemists devising
our declarations
Letting loose our blackbirds
Camouflaged dark stars
Squawking confetti
knowing everyone
loves the thought
the words
are for them.
We laugh
These words have always been
ours. We are bigger than this mythology.
We were supposed to write a poem
together
about finding god
in the strangest places.
God is a blank canvas.