The Promise of Tomorrow
You and I,
on Sundaland's heights;
dancing.
You and I,
on stars so much brighter than night,
glancing
down at the world,
an entrancing vision
of a better life.
A time gone by.
Indifferent
to quintillions and quintillions of men and women and people in between
who just died
and died
and died.
Reaching for
the promise of tomorrow.
What has meaning, in an earth made of
hollow friends,
heterosexual lovers lying to each other
in bed;
in a storm built to fashion in a teacup
that tastes of the perfect blend
of sadness?
Madness, thrown fits against the walls
of this transdimensional prison?
I am aghast,
as you thrum between my legs,
and make me take you in from behind;
I am also, far too indifferent
to my own rage.
To my own restless invocations of the word and page:
to the way you slide in and out of me. Damaging
everything that would otherwise bring me joy
and more than a tremulous, savage sanity. I am averaging
it all out. My psychoemotional stability is measured in
vision of Kevin Martens, imbibed vicariously. This is not the right way to be
human,
but I am only a pale, violated shadow of a green parrot,
wings beating feebly
against the cage.
I call.
You assuage
me with
more assurances of blood in my name.
You and I were dancing.
Then came the hot, liquifying rain.
You and I were glancing
down, as crisis tore itself back across the world.
As someone else's inner home
went up in variegated, labyrinthine flame.