MACARONIS OF LIGHT

I see you holding to the chub
of my years your fingers
through weathered gaps in my barns,
but what you don’t know is
I never really know what I’m doing
when I start out:  one boot, one sinew,
one uncorked wine, clubbed foot, one
which makes a mixture
of beautiful recipes ineptly
divided by the throb of your temple
vein, a brilliant blue against
ashen white skin.
You age again.
The dogs in the rain park bark back,
remind me to find a way
by blood or by dusk
to your heart that sears
an SOS onto cageling walls
that protect and release us
to any scent in the room.
When we bloom, we turn into
the next person over, an airplane
filled with random images
of others sipping plastic sky drinks
or pacing beside lavatory
panels occupied,
pilots on auto checking
their email.  We morph into any
of them, amidst the altitude.
Because the pump is a compressor
of the soul’s psychic matter,
the jets thin vapors and
the star matter seeping
through double-paned windows
of cottony lungs still not
exactly us or those dogs on terra firma
making their heartaches,
signed on the line by an X
to remind us
who we were the moment we awoke,
pulled on a sock and flexed
muscles to toe glowworms
on carpets streaming
through curtains to connect
the human partitions
with the mapped-out world:  the you
that is me, inside hung out,
wringlets of sun made flesh into aura,
the spark of god lying
in flight on the floor between us.



THE ANATOMY OF FEEDING

Plenty of people still eat white
flour and mortared cows,
so my supply of brown
rice and kale stands
unthreatened by the masses
who don’t appear
entranced with
the nutrients a soil can
infuse its leaves within.
I meant to shave before I left
you alone among the roots,
though you plucked and dug
the hairs nonetheless,
felt my inner ghosts pouring
through each pore, the hunger
of how little we pay attention
to what we instill the gullet
with, what minds, what grains,
what indignities we select
our angers for, our cues and
discriminations, our addictions
for the habits that define
the personalities presidents
and poets speak about us with.
In your smile, I see a razor,
lean towards the throat
in reflection I see myself gazing
from and the red piercing
my engorged eyes pull
you towards, your telling scrapes
of mouth down
the trace of esophagus,
how we swallow all whole,
the love, the hate, the in-between
indifference which amounts
to a trial of penance
as though there were heroes
and enemies and now just
the dinner table passing
for sustenance or poison,
depending on how we call
constitutions a static vision
instead of a series of 4ths
of July, fjords and glaciers,
incisors that pierce
sweet corn and how hay sounds
the popping of discord
which holds us apart, like glue.