Monday, February 09, 2004
How I Erase Sour (from Citrus)
“You can’t start this way,”
so I walk out of work smelling
danish and citrus,
Paris and palms,
stomach full,
sharps and flats.
I picture
biting into lemon,
stuffing pulp up my nose,
wringing a rag
in my head,
escaping to a roof,
round grit
sticking into skin.
The ride home kills,
just as all returns,
like draught,
supply silence.
“This has to be the last time,”
so I look her in the eye,
stand on two feet, hands
gripping my waist,
wading,
thinking about Steinbeck:
Travels With Charley,
page 38,
white line,
black line,
bag pressed thin.
Back to the chimney,
I read on,
a private conversation,
an orgasm outside of time:
guitar solos and citrus,
danish and spice.
Ears blazing,
I thrash against the end
of the colors, the damp
of the rag, crust already
locking between my eyes:
a Roman emperor rolling
along the top of the wall,
stone pressing defensive
tattoos into my skin.
so I walk out of work smelling
danish and citrus,
Paris and palms,
stomach full,
sharps and flats.
I picture
biting into lemon,
stuffing pulp up my nose,
wringing a rag
in my head,
escaping to a roof,
round grit
sticking into skin.
The ride home kills,
just as all returns,
like draught,
supply silence.
“This has to be the last time,”
so I look her in the eye,
stand on two feet, hands
gripping my waist,
wading,
thinking about Steinbeck:
Travels With Charley,
page 38,
white line,
black line,
bag pressed thin.
Back to the chimney,
I read on,
a private conversation,
an orgasm outside of time:
guitar solos and citrus,
danish and spice.
Ears blazing,
I thrash against the end
of the colors, the damp
of the rag, crust already
locking between my eyes:
a Roman emperor rolling
along the top of the wall,
stone pressing defensive
tattoos into my skin.
