Untitled #9

In those very cloudy hours when retinas long for a
kiss and the deep tiring gulp you took
because you thought you could quench
appears struck still somewhere between the 4th thoracic and
sweat-stained leaflets, ready with a eager heart to have the next most politically absurd
ideology to be decorated in Monotype Corsiva,
and the beam of spirituality suffers a quaint convulsion -
you wake up to
a
culturally redundant conversation that involves
knowing the names of the best exotic homoerotic pleasures
the tribulations of being savvy
and pitfalls of a demanding routine of gnawing, sniffing non-sequitur manner of being earnest and smart.

I do not know, for in the space between my ears
several light years explode and
blankness reigns,
the same blackness the lays dandy in the space

between scripted conversations going in the palace and their failure to match
with similar gestures on the eyeballs.