Blickstein

J.
J. Blickstein

Night Shade
for Jen

your kiss is a jar of fireflies
the sticky liquor blushing the
bells
in the pores to bang their tongues of instinctual water
into
semaphores of light
you recite a rhythm portrait without numbers &
carve a totem pole
milking the fur of the holy dog
you feed the
wrinkle in the machine
sweeten the nightshade & hypnotize mankind
back into tents
which must work with the curve in the horizon & the
green in the wood
you stop the act of admiration &
gesticulation
before the frail warm gestures of robed butchers
&
the contrite violins of generals
you make me leave my shoes with the
broomstick by the door
I shit on statues & work in the fields
you
smear my tattoo
& when you open your mouth to say the words
the
buffalo replenishes the herd
you set fire to the stone &
pollen
& the ears of the world bleed all the way to Karnak
where I
become that scarab rolling shit backwards
over the lips of the sphinx,
the greeks, the french,
back through time & the doorway
where the
heart rose from ashes & diamonds
& shed me to your breast

useless

return
to SHAMPOO issue #1