All of the Inflections

Boy Delilah

They want evidence,
cold hard fact.
They want his picture taken to prove
that he is more than decadence,
more than a superficial
artifact,
crafted by human celebration,
a soft man
created to be their
genteel bow-tie metropolis man
wearing teal, not green,
a crossing-his-legs-out-on-the-scene man
with soft hands
wearing pointed toes, not steel.
He is only in their minds,
something they find appropriate
to construct,
somebody they think would be
a good fuck,
bottom, they say, because he looks delicate,
a boy Delilah
who can make great men stumble
a sweet Calcavella,
the catalyst
for making great cities crumble,
definitely not a works-with-his-hands,
trekking back-country,
falling-for-a-horticulturalist man.
They know him, they think
(but they don’t),
because they see him
and that’s enough for a taxonomy,
something like astronomy.
Watching stars in the distance
has great margin
for error
and so they name him quickly
because something indefinite will always
cultivate terror.

Clumsy Philosopher

He is
the new phenomenon in Pistol City,

free oblivious epiphanies,

knocking over anthologies for years,
back hot toddies and ballads
for tears,
dropping his pennies into paper cups,
two at a time,
making his way into your hearts,
into your homes,
almost making you believe
that he has found a final resting place
to lay his fiery head,
to douse those luminous stands of divination
reaching out to make you see
bright lights,

white dilated chandeliers,

reflecting all the right answers
off of the ocean,
elucidating your fears,
those lonely beads imploding into fathoms,
releasing amphibious childhood
monsters and other great productions,
now silent,
diaphanous vapours returning home
to where they brew,
to recalculate diplomacy,
developing a new criteria,

sweet frothy hysteria,

changing into shrewd relative blots
that speak of
effervescent strokes of genius
and other darker thoughts,
welling up,
a soggy epidermis desperately, painstakingly
holding onto a weak thesis,
a sorry interpretation
of an outdated exegesis from a
clumsy philosopher,
a wayward traveler who has left about

one thousand homilies

by the wayside,
hoping someone will pick them up
and see his brighter side.

Give Him a Stone, or Something

That man gave me bread,
dinner rolls like stones from a patriarch,
alumina crust
shredding my teeth as I fed upon preservatives.
He asked that I crush myself in return
for his fuel,
welling like pools of sand in my lungs,
gritty and heavy,
it is the texture of my soul
after he kneaded it with his blunted fingers,
needed it for flavour,
sneaking pieces into the mortar,
so potent they could be used for hallucinations.
I swallowed at first
because I wanted to be gracious;
I was on my knees after all,
determined to be a well-fed activist
even though bilious,
with deep-down rumbling thoughts of insurrection,
visions that led me to believe
the whole time I was grossly mistaken,
unaware that those pieces were fake and
my real soul is light,
unlike those modifications
so dense they could be used as ammunition.
I spat everything in his face,
fearing assimilation
because everyone around him
was a beautiful
misconception of something productive,
trading away pieces of themselves
hoping to become
something definitive,
becoming instead something hard and intangible
something primitive.
I take myself out of the action
to watch these illustrations,
inserting captions.
A woman with swollen knuckles
a man standing before me, buckles
in between them,
something like a child wailing,
mouth so wide I can see into his belly,
so I offer him my little finger
as something to suckle,
only wishing that I could give him something
more filling.
They say spilling your tears is useless,
but it is all I can do
so I make tributaries and put us both in a basket,
hoping it will take us away from
the ferocity, the cemeteries,
the crumbling, self-proclaimed dignitaries
lacking porosity,
with so many delightful answers,
but never a question,
never anything but deception.
Drifting away, we watch everyone become
specks in the distance,
brushing them out of our eyes,
but it isn’t their inability to homogenize,
it isn’t their lies,
but what lies before us, we tell ourselves,
the anticipation of something glorious keeping us
rebellious and alluvial
while everyone else remains delusional.

Inflections

It was the sound of rushing,
pushing bodies onto the ground,
hot, thinly-constructed instruments found
in the hands of ventriloquists

and hands,

hands touching my body like Benny Hinn,
many men wanting to claim success,
feeding me power for a second, filling up my chest
with motivation,
leaving behind a holy mess
claiming they were less
than your average philanthropist
with thick fingers and a crumpled up list
of people to fix,
leaving behind well-dressed skin and bones,
homes for the wasted lips

and hearts,

hearts in this world with nowhere to bleed,
feeding on themselves,
forgotten and placed up high on shelves,
their eyes and cartilage thrown
into the breath of a mother,
another broken fixture
trying to understand why the bigger picture
isn’t so clear,
swallowing her children whole to save them
from their erections
because she doesn’t believe
in inflections.