THE APARTMENT

Dateline: 20 January 1969. With humble apologies to John Keats.

-- From having dreamed so long
With every song and love-scene ever played,
The couple locked themselves in and lay down,
Left the lights on, and stayed
(Locked in themselves)
While the TV went out of tone
(The shadows there
Squawked, more like parrots than before)
And then went out,
Not leaving even a cathode star.

And the newspapers piled up against the door
And the cleaning woman rattled her keys and called
And the manager came and went
And detectives dusted the walls and the floor
Without finding a print
Of foul play or fair: Except for where
A bouquet of red roses stained the air
Like a 3-D greeting card,
Nothing was there.

These two had gone beyond
Reality, desire, illusion.
A dream had ended; a journey had begun.
_

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Allegory is easiest,

if you want to get spiritual,

or the erotic sublime—Sebastian

bound and bleeding, blind

for love of God in man—

Or the Catullan-sentimental,

“Admit this sparrow to your nest,”

Otherwise, the pseudo-surrealist

metaphor—an umbrella thrust

through a melon, a tongue

—or else: Sir Daddy, Sir, here I kneel,

(of course) your un-                          

derserving son….

But where can I find

the words, the way to make you feel

what I feel, how

when you look at me,

A globe of light suffuses my chest,

a sunflower spirals below

my belly, glows, grows golden tentacles,

pulling me toward you with electric force . . .    

Do you feel it now?  

            

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THE HAUNTING

If there were such a thing as bi-location,

Your house would be haunted—

A presence would follow you from room to room.

You would have the sensation

That some one was constantly beside you,

Especially at night, in your bed.

You would think twice about looking in the mirror,

Because every time you did,

You would see a face looking over your shoulder

At you . . . your face, your body . . . your ways . . .

The thought of you makes me shiver;

You have taken control of my head.

I have not spent such sleepless nights

Since I was a teenager; never has my bed

Been so empty, nor my heart so full.

Never have I been so driven to masturbation.

I keep having endless imaginary conversations

With you, about you.

This began as a poem about you; it has become

Incoherent through my loss of concentration.

I don’t know what I am going to do.

 

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