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werewolf
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when the work of day is done,
there are fleeting images of how
he would like to live.
like a god he wishes he could be spread out over the syllables
in one singer's beautiful song,
as if he could mimick their smoky voice,
and become them when they felt
this song, when they made it leave them.
between two choices, if you've made it that religious,
it is never hell or heaven.
it is carthage or rome,
one becomes a historical footnote,
or shadowed, or vengeful,
1,000 steps to either side,
both away from your true center,
which is here, equidistant.
you wait each day to meet
the girl you always expected you'd meet,
and you've found her arms,
or else her smile,
but mainly it's always been,
what you can be to them.
if you can feel right.
as if you're running on wind.
to feel all day, like
hermes with a message,
as if you're doing the work
of the gods,
held to standards no higher
than light,
expected to do only what you can,
because that is what this case
calls for.
to have the voice
you love most,
loved.
and you've met girls who
made your days like childhood.
before you learned to speak,
and then learned not to speak.
she was a triumphant return
to the silence or else
silliness of childhood words,
earned this time,
appreciated and so still
less moving.
you've always found
someone cruel and tender,
like childhood hide and seek,
like life is.
you meet another waiting,
perhaps you both are waiting,
you both want to be objects of desire,
and sometimes you're bad,
and she's disinterested,
but mainly it feels more
like sixth grade,
begging off the inevitable
transition to knowledge
with clumsiness,
with teasing,
non-commital, no pimply face
offered, stay shyed away,
like the boys and girls
at the grammar school dance
opposite sides of the room
they've always shared.
and maybe she's who you always
expected.
someone to unmoor you.
you want to somehow be above
one person,
or else beneath them,
a servant is never greater
than their master.
you've always taken
what little you saw as real.
your true hands
hiding in the shadows
of your actions,
of faces and movements like clay.
when you were young,
you wanted to be a sailor,
there was a line
"let her go boys"
about opening the sails.
it seemed so full of motion,
as if you were committing
yourself to the depth
of blue of whales,
leviathans
with eyes large enough
to perhaps reflect your heart.
happiness is a mistress.
she's often untrue,
but what can you do?
what can the sunflower do
but wait while its one love
is on the other side of the world,
but take solace in the moon,
in the soil.
have you ever looked into eyes that tethered you?
to a spot untill you knew that spot.
untill you memorized one path
to orgasm and forgot all others.
you feel balanced,
like two tigers sharing a tongue.
one can pull you to places you've already been,
pull you further though,
further into them.
another can pull you where
you always expected.
can unmoor you.
you can't remain equidistant.
the moment you look
into an eye, and see yourself reflected,
you become real.
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040301
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