Dig­i­tal Frame Story

X

RE: E-VITE: ALL NIGHTER
WHEN: 12–21-12
WHERE: apart­ment flats south of Mul­berry Park
WEAR: dress to deter­mine next year’s dress code

IX

I have some­thing of yours. It is some­thing I think
I must return to you. Dear­est Muse: run­ning out—

Not of time, somehow—but dreams and themes
With which to fill it: The Cul­ture was created

For depen­dant Courtiers. We had our rea­sons.
A les­son in sen­sory over­load: If a train

Com­posed of nerves derails and no one hears
The fab­ric unravel: con­sider resem­bling the lilies

From the Mason jar, lilies and the odd For­get Me
Not now knocked over, never toil­ing when crushed

Into the car­pet where, of course, there is no water.
Only wise-crack allu­sions to pig­ment: pink is myrrh

Yellow—gold, blue—frankincense, a hal­lu­cino­gen.
Sol­stice had us decked in such lav­ish jewels

The Jew from the East pawned cheap to be The Life
Of The Party—his arms around your waif-waist

VIII

How the Roman sol­dier low­ered the star
Pro­tag­o­nist onto his chest // from I don’t know what

State of trance: trained to bal­ance dead weight on top
Of grav­ity, impact—like a fire man, upon bel­low­ing up

My god hurry trust me jump. To those who jumped
When the frame unframed the mock Van Gogh—

Glass cas­ing swing­ing open on the open­ing night
Of the gallery, Sea­son of Reflect-upon-the-limits

Of sobri­ety—I only came to see the show
I’ll not be held respon­si­ble—I’m tempted to relate

VII

The way the aqua-tinted, make-shift vase sprayed
Waves of pot­pourri across a desert of linoleum

So when car­ried through a gar­den after dusk
Con­cealed the blunt of it, the lus­cious and lacking

Lan­guage of it, after swords were tucked safe
Into their sashes still coated with petals and the scent

Of slashed lobes, a lung can’t help but feel—
Punc­turable. To remind you how your hero’s famous

Sky­line had to gyrate, how his flow­ers had to burn
Like tiny suns before they sung and could be painted

VI

In The Way They’d Never Been.
The lengths I’d go, to sab­o­tage an end out of this

Year of Regress, Month of Barely Mov­ing Tar­gets.
Once the bare-foot god­dess dismounted,

Bathed in star dust, from the beast, I’ll bet she bled
Heroic quan­ti­ties, they’d say. I used to know

A shrewd busi­ness­man who drove a hard bar­gain
Pushed from low-brow museum to low-brow—

V

But enough about myself. I grow cold, I grow cold.
If I take this pill, ‘twill be the last I ever rolled.

To inquire with regard to the Sil­ver // Axis Day
I wrenched away from, how you managed,

With a five a.m. night cap, drunk in the with­er­ing
Dark of a kitchen, with­out so much as a toast

To old alle­giances. I’ve stolen, I’ve stolen what I
Doubt the loyal doubted. Depend­ing how

IV

The cards fall // the coin: which side is vis­i­ble
The prize goes home with every­one: so no one

At once. I’ll return whence I come
In thrice sleep­less nights, for my blood line

With­out so much as half-a-glass of wine—loves
A con artist. Bathed in chain smoke I’ll attempt

III

To gauge the snow fall from the porch
By what parts of the Nativ­ity Scene remain

Uncov­ered: the tip of the shep­herd staff, the stiff
Expres­sion worn by Josef, and least

II

Mnemon­i­cally correct—the blessed virgin’s
Head­dress. Because you rav­ished them

Before you lost con­scious­ness: they cast lots
For your vote. I’m just writ­ing to leave you,

I

In short, with a quote:

This is the way the year ends

This is the way the year ends

This is the way the year ends

Not with a myth but a reference.