where you are, the only place
i'd want to be or could imagine myself--
my whole self, all parts,
all breathing and skin and warmth--
where you are is perhaps all i can ever be
till i outgrow this body, this age.
i realize there's no one waiting,
i realize this place
is empty now, is barren, is moments
away from being forbidden--
where you are, in that dim room
that smells like home and sex,
is it better there?
i am staggering drunk down streets,
finding myself on steep concrete stairs,
waiting to wander or wonder:
where you are, the only place
i can be, and can't find.

the use of the body, so bound
in strings and terror:
is it right, is it moral, is it effective?
can the hands do this, can the mouth?
(will it hurt?)
even in age there are questions.
yet how can there be any doubt when the body
is all you are, is all you can be?
the only earthly thing you are attached to,
kite string, ballast.
take the doubt, dig a hole,
bury it deeper than toes sinking into sand.
gather the fear, sever the string,
let it loose into thinner skies.
the body is all you have,
claim clearance, find physical fealty.

worthless worth can't prove a thing,
can't convince anyone to stay or seek;
the worth of words so helpless
compared to the strike of self-doubt.
when i was younger, did i doubt so
wholeheartedly, unabashedly, vocally?
i thought self-assurance came with age
but all i find is too many years,
the antiquity of grief which has passed.
am i worth, am i worth it? i have
no proof, not even an argument
that might convince you to love me
as you ought, as you should have for years.

you lie with your teeth, white lies,
trimmed with milkfat and sugar
and baked into pale glowing pies:
the resplendence of virtues!
and your fingertips lie as they move
sneaking and searching for truth,
tracing my body, its lines and grooves
to find a secret i never told.
the body is one sweet masquerade,
a ballroom with candles and syrup
and sconces, a whole dreamscape created
to make me finally open my mouth.

it starts
with a glance
then a question
(words spoken too fast
the mouth stumbles on intent)
what's your name, where you from?
and the tentative decision to touch
fingertips that graze and lips that brush
all to stumble out together, tumble in together
one big bed in a dark, chilly room is all you earned

compulsion shows the truth.
what i seek, between your hands,
in the empty space the flesh can fill,
is less than what is possible.
what i am capable of, between your hands,
the words and actions that can come
from the crush of affection:
call it fire, call it fear, all things
come to an end when confronted
with absolution.
what could hell possibly be,
if not the gradual, witnessed wilting
of love and life?
the fading out of vibrance, color:
where the push of your skin on mine
does not force emotion,
there is no longer any time!
any words we join into sentences
fall by, fall flat,
we must find moments to sequester them,
reorder them and make them live again.
what could hell possibly be
but your specific absence?
the room we create
between the arcs of our fingers
(lasting only moments,
passing like stars in the sky)
decries the common truths.
all love is specific, beautific,
writhing with the work of possibilities.

there is only one dream left
at the end of the road,
one golden gleaming hope
that won't die till you do:
sustenance, sufficience,
the dream of enough, enough.
when all other loves have left
(your face your hands,
dark rooms and loud music
or glasses pouring over with froth)
there is no meaningful loss
until the end of the line.
when the dream of enough
(warmth, food, comfort)
abandons you at last,
the cardinal sins are revised
and maybe god will forgive you
for giving up just a bit.

when the bells begin to chime,
i'll be far away from here:
i'll be somewhere on a beach,
playing hide and seek with time.

when the tower starts its song,
i'll have been gone for days
to a place its sound won't reach,
where the nights are deep and long.

when the clock sings out the hour
i'll be warm on golden sands,
making friends with roaring waves
and preaching patience to the choir.

when the voices raise their call,
i'll be too far gone to listen;
i'll be somewhere in my mind,
and i won't hear them shriek at all.