Tuesday, January 10, 2006
I agree with the woman who said
Art is a state it doesn't need to be an accomplishment.
Last night an eagle spread it's wings and revealed a sexually charged boy
I heard continuous, even drumming.
Around the boy's thigh, like a bracelet, tattooed:
Aurifica Ego Regina
We were lovers when he moved in.
The eagle said I don't want to wake up or kill you.
I became afraid when the boy flew.
I have filthy dreams of unclean rooms and dirty dishes.
The boy was my best friend --
He, the boy, was a displacement, a poet.
I viewed him as a brother.
A dog had been sleeping.
I had to talk him out of sexual advances.
A wolf penetrating a dog with a shaft of lunar light.
I told him if I went up the stairs I would be a dead man walking.
This was difficult.
He, the boy, pulled a gun on me when I refused to have sex.
He didn't want to wake me.
Pure, and simply, he insisted he had witnessed a celestial penetration.
It was hard for me to move the heavy furniture.
When I opened his chest I was told I was bad.
I sleep continually in a tremble.
These are my final days.
Love is possessive.
These emotions have been purged.
I wish him no animosity.
We were best friends.
Delect me, embrace me.
-- Jeff Wietor
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