Dining Room Discourse
Come travel the depths of this lonely night
Where knotted roots grope for a morsel
Amid the pale faces of flesh undressed
Whose pathways are smitten with pools of blood
That had once been pumped by a vital heart
Now lay stagnant, solitary tear drops.
“Besides,” she says: head bowing, smile sly,
“My boyfriend would really hurt you if he
Found out I was going to leave him for you.”
And suddenly I am flushed through the vein
Into cavern where the vultures might digest
The grim reality we all might call truth.
Outside I dine in tavern with maiden,
So fair, who no longer wants my love stare?
I do not feign to flee into the night
Through thicket of veins that crunch underfoot.
But might these vine grow grapes and berries sweet
That expose my heartache, a vanity?
There is depth deep in this pit of despair
That is truly called to burrow deeper.
So why bother wet the tip of this plume
With the stain of my x generation?
The lame reader will only scoff and suck
Their precious oxygen beneath oak tree.
From the railroad tracks, cross my father’s lawn
To the dust graffiti of the ghetto
I’ve cast my eyes upon the root’s domain
Where radical cysts strangle the silk day,
With puss from the bottomless hole of greed;
As such past traumas are revisited
With the dawn of a new day eminent.
So much waste at so young an age
Cysts absorb nutrients devoid of love.
But I cast off these internal wanderings
While I stand on my pedestal of mold
In the utter recesses of the night
Dreaming of love, commitment, devotion
Lacking the structure of rhyme and reason.
Dump the rack of mint and pepper season
The sound fades to absorbed desolation.
Dump the thyme and rosemary into dust!
Heed not the reverberations of the weak!
Let us travel to a place far away
Above the walls of my dank existence
To where sun nurtures the high desire
And taunt wildflowers sway in the breeze
Fueling the bud of repressed passion;
And while no blood has bloomed I can still see
The iris of my imagination
Through the green mist of the vegetation
Where fair maiden bathes on a blanket.
Oh might I sit in that silent clearing
Might I hold that curve in her spine to mine,
And taste the pure cocktail of her lips?
If not the thunderous crack of her eyelash
That looks towards the door and speaks her firm, “no!”
I look at her from the depths of this site
Knowing that she will not care about
A scavenger of my variety,
Who starves to death with the proud aesthetic.
She has no idea that within the decay,
The corroded grime of sheer existence,
That nurtures my eternal echoing
Of spiteful spasmodic septic sink holes
That there lies a heart that is open and sincere.