24 April

Je vais faire quelque chose d'importance, je crois. Oui. Je dois.

18 April

Anorexia is a kind of laryngitis of the spirit. There are few things that can stop that kind of entropy.

On Absence

When I became we I became

Water. I am liquid in too many places.

See how I babble, how I cannot read or speak,

How nightly I cannot uncork the light

From the windows and lay instead counting the

Stars between me and Slovakia.

I am liquid in too many places. See?

I am ink. I am stamped on Trnava buildings and

Buildings like the Furies.

Look, a leg, a heart, a liver

Float like candles in the Danube.

Bratislava is beautiful with so many

Dawns growing bright inside my belly.

Evening sets over the Tatras

And stars again sleep, sleep below the

Surface of the water.

2 April

Father, I was, I am, I am

what you have made of me--

and from the graven You

in my bulimic limbs we flee.

Abstinence Ode

It's a kind of maneuver against

elegy. It's a kind of static game we play

where the hungry and unfathomable

remain so. It's a kind of spiritual

anorexia.

Legs crossed, legs crossed,

as simple as yeast, while in the backseat

of an empty cop car Hamlet and

Ophelia's heads bob and rise

in tandem like blonde-sweatered stars.

If not now, will Lazarus crawl into my bed?

The sweetness of earth will have

vamoosed and lepers will give us

new names.

It's a kind of dance where you swallow

both me and yourself.

Older and older men will crawl into my shelves

and fill me with their bullets.

It's a kind of interminable sonnet in which

love creeps from your room

and from my room and from age

creates eternity in skin.

It's a kind of crucifix to which we press

our virgin foreheads,

lifting warm untasted Eden

to our lips.