The classic lovers tarot framed by House of Intuition in Los Angeles. Seemed fitting for the words.
I could get lost in someone for a weekend—
some fellow whose eyes scald like fire,
and leave me burned
we could hole up in my ramshackle apartment
where the walls are still bare and bed is stripped
and listen for the ocean in a seashell
and dine on boxed angel-food cake in bed
and sway to records in our underwear
and captivate each other in silence
and
having deluded myself into thinking I’d be found
I’d find myself more lost, still.
These days, the poetry has withered for me
it smells forged, it reeks of Hollywood gutters
an emptiness pervades nearly every meeting,
the familiar fragrance of desperation clings to “romantic” encounters
I am removed, my eyes drift
there is a scent of tuberose
wafting from the summer yard
a reminder of
the frequent comings and goings in early years
a wondering
questioning of the return
the naive aching
wanting to be held like a child
then
and
now, still.
So, now that even my old flames have faded
I have to ask myself: what’s next?
if not this craving, then what?
if not some great godhead, some study, some lofty exploit
some laceration of myself
I lie in a stripped bed quivering
charged, an unexplained electrical inferno.
I could get lost in someone for a weekend—
some fellow whose eyes scald like fire,
and leave me burned,
but I’m too honest for most—
a certain taste,
grown too weary of pretending.
And now, if I turn my hands over,
they are already midnight (of my own accord)
no stars, no illuminated Los Angeles night
blackened and steeped in my own ashes,
seems the only thing left is to rise.