It’s sometime past midnight and I’ve only been awake for hours
I’ve been dreaming, it seems,
I just woke up
to the sound of irony, madness, despair and delight.
I am anarchy and I am vengeance.
I am cynicism and regret.
I am shards of broken glass and rusted fire hydrants.
I am six thousand voices hushed into silence.
I am one hundred years of successive disinterest.
Hello, my name is Sharper Than.
My name is Sounds Like.
You can call me As If.
I am Vehicular.
My name is For Ever.
Call me Jupiter.
I fell off a tree once and landed on springs,
I flew like those remote-control helicopter things.
It was beautiful and soon
I fell right over the spoon
and the cow played a fiddle by the light of the moon.
It wasn’t that I ever decided to stay.
It was more that I never was able to leave.
I tried and I failed, and eventually paled
at the idea of even attempting to believe.
Beyond what I know is some substance of dark
Or perhaps it was white, or nothing at all.
But I know what I know, and I know it for certain,
that all that I know is swept up in my brain.
It’s held in a sieve and steamed out for my health
And I waft it with care to my sightless, sore eyes
but the things I have seen
have substantially been
some evidence of the things I don’t know.
I hate the word Love,
and I hate it aright.
I hate the pierced heart
that comes with the night.
I hate the soft winging
of sighs and doves singing
that come with that blind gentleman
dispensing his sight.
I once knew what nothing means–
and I swear it was nothing too sinister
or heartless or hopeless
it wasn’t like cancer or fire or war.
It was more like a windy day
that blows your new hat right over the edge of some cliff
right into the ocean
but it looks so pretty falling down.
I am a slave to my art.
It’s not a choice I can make
I write what I’m given,
and live all my mistakes.
You’re so pretty when you speak
with your long-fingered words,
your fine-tipped punctuation,
the curvature of your accent.
You’re so tempting, my friend,
so like water to me
and I the desert nomad
fall so easily.
Here I lie in my skinny domicile,
no air that I breathe,
all darkness and decay and fly sounds
and I lie here reposing
my life the sad victim of your pernicious flattery.
I kiss my hands when I go to sleep
and I don’t think of you.
I think of how my fingers have no muscles
and the scars I can’t explain
and the way my nails grow frank and plain.
I think of henna
and dimpled palms
and the way my ring leaves a mark where it sits.
I think of doing things with my hands
that have never been done.
I think of finishing things I started
and of washing clothes and building houses
and handing tickets and holding pens
and all the things I haven’t done.
And when I kiss my hands,
I’ve never seen my face.
I’ve never touched your lips.
I’ve never held anything in my hands
while whispering my sirensong to an amorous night.
Am I nothing?
Am I everything?
Am I sixty feet below sea level and suspended in the green glow of something muffled and wet?
Am I more than the sum of my parts?
Am I one-tenth of a spirit and nine-tenths of a person?
Am I protons and electrons and neutrons all spinning without colliding?
Am I serendipitous?
Am I Prometheus and are you Fire?