Happiness is a warm god’s smoking whiskey barrel pulpit,
where vows went whizzing past, secret bullets in gelato sweetness.
(Darling, dalliances were not becoming you,
you sloughed them off like a wineskin sacrament and
made yourself a mistress of may weather for every earring and ink stain that pierced the night’s sloppy silences.
October made mousse of men,
creamy center stationary scrawled in jelly fillings,
teeth tarnishing, gnawing on nightshade.
Sweet bliss of banishment, too late to abandon new gods that had scrawled “maybe” on my whiteboard well before Thor called distant thunders’ calamity to cower small folk back into their barrows for fear of the wind sending sentiments for sediment, scattering in the fall gusts.)
We made no promise of sacrifices,
goats and sheep bleat still, wandering worry-less,
just dissolute kissing dissolving in a doorway,
empty articles of artifice’s artificial sensation:
we cut loneliness in an abattoir,
paid each pound of flesh with resolutions,
butchering each brandished scar to make a marbled glistening
gravy of our gradually gathered grief.
Our kisses crept up our convictions,
tasting of dirty words and spotted souls,
of Elizabethan japes and half-expected promises that surprised
nobody but you.
It would have been a foolish thing had he never made you honest,
even if you couldn’t be, giving half-truths to cover whole aisles of the indiscretions seduction brought around.
This is an apology letter to no one,
none of us need it,
we were innocents in naïvety,
we were tattered rags for a drum skin,
we were shadow-boxing daybreak.
I love you, I love you, you evolved without me,
Cro-Magnon countenance made into a candelabra,
illuminating “what-if’s” out the darkness of confusion and lonely housewife girlfriends.
Infidelity has made me obdurate,
or was my heart this hard before I broke these tinsel-tine boundaries?
Before you – before her, this suit of dissolution would have been anathema to old clothes,
now jealousy gives yield only to inquiry –
can I show up late to a knife fight with a peace poem
and cut myself to the patchwork quick on passion fruit ripened red in the light of Polaris, would north face south again just one more time?
Hopelessly haranguing does neither of us good,
you were gobbled up before we ever met:
digesting has always been a problem for me,
bricks building up in my guts,
boarding up a solitary confinement somewhere around my heart –
because he is built of practical promises,
and I am just finessed together feelings,
a shade of satiation, chocolate temptation in a hunger strike.