.

when men behave with voices poached
in roccoco pitch, when they become
all blazing brains and leaping flames
in dirty silence with gaming girls on ruddy shores
as if to claim that they are not themselves today
' til all tied up in tasty curls of Marlborro blue,
' til all aglow in a cutting half-lit afternoon hue
even though so much has changed, but more,
when they become all "mona this" and "franny that",
all "I don`t know", confusing promise with
"if she said that, she lied to you",
when they are only this or that,
oh well.


and not to use these rotted names as if
to scrub the varnish off their skin, as if
to throw away their lights, their definitions,
but this is why such self-mutation hides inside
their instep arch to compress their crystal complications,
and even though I cannot tell if they are more than
imitations for the ear or anti-apocalyptic prophets
singing songs of self, even so, this is when I lack
contrition and gently tack their wings onto a wall,
all lined up and lame as if to occupy themselves
in haughty chardonney that slowly spills
into the night, to sleep, to death and stars,
oh hell.