Ainsi, realite, le plat vide, encore,

(here is where you come back all autochrome

lumiere, lit flesh and knowing eyes.) Et Encore,

l’interdit n’est pas le miene, ne plus. (No, I summon

the Cheshire, the Ouroboros, the dog called Nukka,

part wolf part goddess of death.) Enchanter is to enchant.

Oublier is to forget. (Let there be light by the ladies’ room

in that bar, let there be light in our bed, where I wrote

above: Amaryllis, where you wrote: Peace, girl, love.)

Le plat, il est vide. Maintenant j’oublie pourquoi je

suis ici sans–  (We strung lights in the tent for my

birthday, Saturn’s return, the year I was meant to die

but didn’t, to my surprise but not yours.) Tu oublies,

non? Ici, I wrote: Your art looks like someone

doing a math problem that does not know math.

Ici, you wrote: I love you, Shannon. Look at the walls,

the writing is there, or has it gone? Has Mike come with

his acetone and his pail and scrubber, has our friend in

his previous role, come back to take it from me (us?) now,

as he narrates our demise (le fin) in that weary-hearted

Shakespearean monologue. Il est le fin? Is it the end?

Il est n’est pas le miene? It is not mine?

Pourquoi?! elle demand (she asks)

et porquoi, il a demand (he asked)

But I knew. And I know.

shannon moore 6/9/10

because I don’t give myself more credit than

that. This is the whole reason I fell for that

superficial glare. But then I layer back over

what the jukebox played tonight, what Will said

about the Symposium as he poured us all another

round on the house, I hear this: Life is art is us

and at it’s expanse, we fall to our knees. Apollo needs

Dionysus. Eros exists because art exists and we exist

in it. Fire. Water. Sex is real. Hunting is real. Shoot it

in the head so as not to fuck up the meat. We are afraid

of death but the Greeks, they knew exactly how to

philosophize on modern love. And turns out the

me that I know and love, she would never be

interested in anything less. And though this poem

is less than those songs on the jukebox and that

blessed levitation I experienced in a discussion

on wine and wheels, so smooth makes so much

sense now. For a minute there, I lost myself, no

matter how it felt it was lesser. It was nothing

more than beach glass. And tonight I realize

how real I was before I entertained a second

rate journalist and a sparkling cloud of noxious

gas. Oh Jesus, what took you so long, boys? I

was nearly  on the ground. I was barely seeing

double till that lovely dichotomy showed itself

Shove me into the sun and then shatter me so

my slivers bed themselves deep into other plans,

present tense: Show me again what we feel when

we don’t focus on our audience– when our finger-

prints are heavy, deep, dark. I’d forgotten how

to see with faceted eyes. I’ve been sure I know

where beauty lies but I don’t. And I did once

so teach me again. Nothing’s gonna stop me

from floating now I can’t survive without

this thought: It was not. It was not.

you and I, remember? I kissed you

on the stoop at 5a.m. after you came

quickly to my desperate call from

deep downtown, my voice shaky:

“Can you pick me up?” Earlier that

evening I had made an excuse as

to why I hadn’t used your phone

number and now it was a scrap

of paper in my shaky hand, I said,

“I’m not dating men,” to which you

didn’t reply. But you told me a few

things about why people are the

way they are, and I couldn’t help

myself. I kissed you, and it was

sudden like the movies, awkward

like the past. And there we were

one night, watching some old

movie on that heavy couch. We

scraped it noisily into place to

more closely pay no attention.

You wrapped your arm around

me, and things changed for the

better. I remember your touch

was determined but gentle, and

I fell in love with you– not then

but later– maybe even before

I will admit to and maybe after

I will admit to until now, as you

sit close to me again on this couch,

and we are not touching. We are

laughing and I am holding a mug

of coffee between us so I make

no mistake, you are not mine any

longer. We talk about the last time

we had sex, and you ask something

to which I reply, “because it was

the first time you were sitting across

from me and you weren’t mine.” But

we are smiling. And it is not the last

time you will be sitting across from

me and not mine, but I let this go as

well as I know how because I love you.

And you still say it back. And this

contents me more now than it used

to, and I am catching a glimpse of

your silver truck as I shut the door,

and we are both still smiling. Keep

you here, I won’t. Let you go for

now, my friend, but you are mine

for keeps somehow, and she and

I have never really looked each

other in the face on this. But I

have to believe she’d agree.

to know you for a moment you’ve

since forgotten. on to something

a little more flesh and blood. ha–

who could blame you? who knew

what we said anyway? only you

and I, which is now just I and an

empty hotel room is funny, isn’t

it? you’re not even a ghost, you

are just someone I knew for one

moment and now you are still

playing with words like a happy

child, playing with belts like a

performer. everything is still

in place for you and I was just

an image and a word and a voice

but only real or so, so you don’t

know me really, do you? easier

that way to let go. so you do, like

a happy child does. and my stories,

my heart in my fingertips, my real

lump here, well, you said you wanted

me inside you.  but that was a place

that never existed. and this was  a

blip, a glitch, a page you crumpled

up and threw away so you could be

a happy little girl again. so be it.

I am screaming into nothing about

being a real boy, about being real.

but tree falls in empty forests, blah

blah blah, you wouldn’t dream

(anymore) about hearing it.

maybe it went with Millie

to Devon shores, I can

almost hear her

laughing.

What were we doing,

running away

from each other after

the bar that night?

Oh god,

we spent too much of it

wasted. We spent

too much of it.

An ocean,

things mattered.

Words, dimedozen.

I can’t laugh about it yet.

You can’t

laugh about it yet.

I was

supposed to take care

of you. I was supposed to

take care.

These were two years

I would throw onto

the fire because

I misunderstood

the meaning

of sacrifice.

But then you stood,

that night,

between me and

the Ladies room.

These years were to be

a forerunner of

some death for this

poor Ouroboros.

But you stood

between me

that night.

So I stopped

practicing

my last breath.

And we wrote

on the wall.

my world up from behind the eyes and I snap-to,

believe in things like words and images again.

In sleep, they did not exist. Like meaning, they were

lost on me because I was an exposed, pulsing nerve.

And nerves just have no need to know why they exist.

Good morning! Don’t you wonder why the dying care

more about how hot or cold, what they eat, if the light

is on or off? It’s not because they are afraid of going–

Nowhere or somewhere. Leaving. It’s not. It’s because

they are in a dream where they are a network of nerves,

just feeling it. Feeling everything, recognizing matter.

Being one with matter. Because that makes sense, right?

Things taste good or bad, feel soft or hard, hurt or don’t

hurt. That’s just all it can make of itself when it’s going.

But the paper hits the doorstep, and the not dying, we

connect: Meaning. There it is, it’s come. Nothing quite

better: a good cup of Earl Grey and belief in words again.

I find my mind was better off before you Graced it.

No number of dim lit hotel booths could safe

absorb this feeling close to hatred.

No time to waste, but look–

it’s wasted. Just fine,

twined a mess

though not

regret

yet.

than Sedum growing at the

doorstep. But no one there

to put to word how strange

their color changed

from joy to fire while wild

September wind blew home

the honeybees. Write it!

Maybe the least of these

can summon back.

in the bars, where I have
examined every notch
of wood, have run my hand
along bathroom words and
cried into the mirror like when
I was a girl but I was a girl
then and not this–
this thing is too much,
this boy is a brilliant mustached
idea that rips me out

of death, but how do you say
that, Alice? how do you say,
“you rip me out of death and this
is why there should be touch”
when you’re drinking so much,
maybe time gets thick and
membranes get shaky,
maybe snakes eat their own
tails just so like that,

like you once believed was not
for you but for the masses–
you were a piece of ass then but
no, he says, no– you were
bookish. “I didn’t know you
had a body like this,”
and I said, “what DID you
know, genius?”

Come sit by me now, but not so
far away with your mind, please,
and let me show you a few things
in my pocket, let me pull out a
few tricks, won’t you? I am good
at this, or I was. I was good at
this, or I am dying, but what’s
the difference really, if the
world’s turning up or turning
down– see? see how I
did that?

I want you so bad my hands
ache, but no one goes to
the doctorfor that, saying,
“is this desire?” you know,
like pj harvey, like you-be-the-
boy-and-I’ll-be-the-
girl for the first time, did
this even happen?

I forget,
I forget the voice
I am using. I forget
what I wanted to tell you
but I only told me.

how silent can
it be, the black and white of it,
this scream?

what’s the chance you
will

take that as is. because
I will not say it plainly
again.

or maybe I
will:

I want you so bad
my hands ache.