27

“Everything is great.” That’s what ma said with her eyes,
Faintly and glowing, and going sadly blind.
Descend. “Everything is great and will be great,
Delicate and radiant, and full of life as you are, mine Child.”
Mama, look at what I’m becoming, not the one imagined. I am real. I am real! I am here, am I not?

…Where people saw kindness in her, they saw the same much of nothing in me.
I saw nothing back at the world, too– mind you– nothing but black, and brown,
And gray, and teal, and cyan, Ember over ember. Clout after clout.
Brilliant child, intellectual child, promising child, soulful and still just a Child.

Geb remember gebikoy twenty-sixth runaround and roundabout.
Geb remember how geb was, then and well-behaved.
Picture the earth of my skin, solid and certain as mercury, y more poisonous,
Y more masculine y malicious, y drunk-sick of the world– sculpted, even,
Like a take, like a tale in Greek, and in Roman, and in Islander or Asian, or anything other because everything is utter other. Now,

Had ye ever been as alive, Sen? Had ye been so naive that it hurt?
Did you, too, attempt to walk the waters as your own savior,
Or try to beat something akin to soul cancer?
Come with me, then, Sen. Come with me, and leave the pink cherry slips behind.

I am drawn, from time to time, to the dark corners, so do I wander,
For the absinthe and the absent and the tales of tomorrow as told by my father– so to I drink,
The senses poured from chrysalis of my own mischief which are frightful, magnetic, magestic and fertile,
And sullen, even, from boot to boot. Come with me, then, Sen. Come with me, and we’ll meet Ben even.

Let be, Ben and Geb, and Sen and Kei, vibrant as they are frescoes.
Aching and ached for rest’ring. They are shrill.
Shrill– for attention and for softer hands as they match against wits in the eternal
Moving board, from pawn to pawn and kings to queens,

From the bluest of mountains where the earthly gulls lay to die,
To the ends of Oslo or Taguig or maybe even Palawan.
Maybe what I want from all of this is what I want to find.
Come with me, then, Sen. Come with me, because on you, the world is kind.

I want to find a text that is a testament of your unburdened, both that is rose and rosary and knows the boundlessness of no-giving-ups.
I want orchards in the story of the three storey rooftop filled with bumbles and bubbles and doves blooming like summed pers’nal vineyard.
I want the sky kneeling t’wards me like the spring days, on all its blues and hues and misanthropic somber that promise to give life, and boom life.

I want a cup of cold water, cold as to deserve what we observe.
I want the lips of a man so battered that I could taste all the years spent in agony and mistrust and disgust.
I want to slay with my one hand wolves and deserters and near-adolescent monsters moonlighting and in disguise.

Give me that. Give me that. And become a traveller for the perforated, decorated nights.
So to sprint like feet are pillars of vicious monastery calls savoring coarse the pigly delicacy of my lola Beth, and the mystery of dinners she left behind.
They jump, and so to I jump in memory.
Come with me, then, Sen. Come with me, and we will never stop.

I’ve seen men bury themselves in work, and debt, and more work, and more debt.
They get to build houses, apply for project fundings, linger their feet on tonic, and feel sly as the devil,
At least, for some time. Some inappropriate time.
“Of course, he’s not interested in your ideas,” my friend said. “He doesn’t think like you, don’t blink like you.

“Doesn’t know the world even remotely like you. The way he sees things is the way the ordinary graze on the ordinary.
He’s a lesser version of your previous lovers. And the sooner you realize that, the lesser you’d resent him.”
I don’t know if what she said was right. I resent him already anyway, and my callous shouldn’t matter.
They’re not to anything or anyone anyway.

And so, I settle for the black hearts. Net my way around the caucus and plead innocence
With a low-curved shock and emanation of clunkering praise and unmooring by beetles,
And so denigration by the crescent moon over and up ahead.
It lies from time to time, reflects your lines to lines.

Why do we love mysterious things? Why do we seek it often, on our couches, on our beds?
Why do we go miles to witness a trial of a witch or warlock, or stop by a going-down building.
Why are we so quick to assign blame? We know so little, take so little, but like being part of things.
Part of guessing, part of trying. I guess I guess I think.

On working and prying out, I like it when the body hurts hours ‘fter the wake.
Reminds me of days, starting, lounging, would have closed in close by self-sedition.
When fibers are torn, when limbs in repair, I am comfortable. I am hurting, hardened.
I am living, perhaps, learning, new tricks, pricks, new bricks, all from two to seven.

I guess, I like myself too much, or too little, maybe.
Happy as a slave to how the worlds inside behave,
And the world on the out and owlish sees me, sees to me,
Seize and cease to me.

Geb, to cry at night, Geb, to sing in the right.
Geb, to swerve gentle akin to some baby in the modest coffin y under meds.
Fifty-three remaining. Fifty-two remaining bright.
Come with me, then, Sen. Come with me, and flatter the bed.

The clock is ticking down, tickling to your noted six-fifteen.
You are of old age, rotten age, still accomplishing nothing, running from everything,
And loved by no men in between.

Come with me, then, Sen. Come with me, and so to we will make amends
Through 27 lives and through 27 deaths.
(And dense dens indent.)

.
..

Sleep now,
my graceful
tapir.

Sleep now,
so we can be together tomorrow as a whole.


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || poetry, The Green Sun
 
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