DOT DEVOTA

 

 

                                     



IT IS LOVE THAT I DON'T WRITE

 

 

Vanity is the same as love
vanity is the love of the self who doesnít call any more
I donít call
but think of them all as if caught
in a torrential downpour as if the grave dropping
a wild animal falls down the stairs
from above I think of them like a thief sculpted in marble
the Michelangelo I crawl out of
one climbs while holding on


I donít call anymore
and Iíve given myself cancers just thinking of the voice

that sprays from biblical holes having been spoiled
at the surface unbreakable codes
whose author is myself playing dumb
I think of them as Iíve starved each
and shred the tablecloth with my nails
my gut a den of cockroaches
building their empire to throw stones the pile grows
Iíve knocked loose the viewing ledge
a valley which calls and hangs up
and calls and answers in the middle of the night
worrying the worst has happened
the worst happens
which wasnít the worst we had imagined
but a distant quota is made in revelations for the day
my consciousness falls asleep and loses sensation
laying on the dead
weight of what isnít dead I worry
consciousness is an arm that isnít mine
but Iíve shook momentary insanity
firmly and repeated my name


what emerged swollen
from under the lake disgust dressed
you peered into the engagement
congratulating the rest of my life!
but it is vanity that I donít write!
a self love for the distance I put between us
one echoes within its valley
love spasms against like sides
setting off the motion sensors flooding the courtyard I think of that voice
but donít call
writing down the earthen codes soft in clay pots
tomorrow the pots harden in the sun
to hold water the hands stay clasped how much
time we were given I am vain
and in love! I stalk the stars in the lake an oar in your sky
all without calling!


if you heard from me swirling in volatile oils
the horse arrived saddled but bucked
simple words were left
in favor of the more complex ones
we utter to no one, turning gifts
into sunken treasure you frown the humiliating physics
of sadness and fat, disappointment you had fed everything of me!
kissing the skin it grabs in fistfuls
vanity dragged myself nearer
erupting from the silence builds arcades and pays our foes, warmth
brought to the surface robbing our core I am selfish
wanting you to exist without confronting me I exist as anything
but a path breaks beyond the house
for you I keep quiet
here my loyalty unkind.

 

 

 

                                                                                                      

 

      

 

                                   

 

 


TYPO 20