Frankly I’m a bit personally offended no one is spooning me right now?
I’m seeing Valenina Lisitsa on Saturday. I’m writing her a prelude and I don’t care how embarrassing it is.
I pull another key from my throat—
this fragile body of touch and taste
cuts them in thousands,
and thousands lay wasted
at my feet.
I am without shape, all outline,
and would part with even that
for the promise of a door.
I’m wearing two sweaters out today, and anyone who says otherwise can kiss my cardigan.
Recollection of Veysel
My patience goes yet unrewarded—
for years I call myself, “Myself,”
with no response;
neither from man, nor animal, nor weed—
and if not, it seems my name is but a name,
my solitude dishonest.
Thus I am afraid of everything—
of every love, of every woman;
to be enamored of anything
is to turn to honey in the gut
of some vagabond bee,
or dust in the lungs of another,
coughed and spat upon the road.
So I become instead a desert place,
occupied solely by distraught lovers
who carve love-letters across my stones;
until, with leaves run shriveled, roses wilted,
fingers withered with arthritic homesickness,
I discover a ghost in the distance
(the possibility of myself);
and, like a jilted child,
abandon him there,
far beyond existence.