InnerBeat

There is nothing and everything in tranquility. Tranquility exists in well-oiled machines and in nature, running cycles smoothly and without reason, just running for our enjoyment or observation. We are incomplete cycles, completed by moments that we think complete us and fully completed only in our death. This is what makes us so beautiful and horrible.

On summer days
and the heart gets colder,
we sit and dream silence.
Together now with no return,
there’s a whisper in our names.
Some day will follow sleep
the ebb of tides not so near
for fear of snow or
other sin
drifting, drifting away.

It was a hazy thing in the middle
of day and night, caught by
the wrist
I was launched by
slingshot memory of the kiss
or possibility.
Colors blur under
fluttering skylights. Haggard
window-washers sweat into soap buckets,
drink whiskey with stars at night,
and remember ancestry in dreams
that fade with dull headaches in
baby watercolor sunrises.

So much lies in the rise and fall of a breath, of a sun, of a nation

Break, break it, break it down like THIS

If I when my wife is sleeping

and the baby and Kathleen

are sleeping

and the sun is a flame-white disc

in silken mists

above shining trees, —

if I in my north room

dance naked, grotesquely

before my mirror

waving my shirt round my hdead

and singing softly to myself:

“I am lonely, lonely.

I was born to be lonely,

I am best so!”

If I admire my arms, my face,

my shoulders, flanks, buttocks

against the yellow drawn shades, —

Who shall say I am not

the happy genius of my household?

I am only going to refer to having sex as either of the following from here on out: “going to the rape zone,” “knockin’ boots,” “doin’ it,” and “going downtown to bone town.”

what about sloshing?