darling s, if you are reading this,
it is because i am already dead.
really dead. not just dead
like the little thatch of fire
between your thighs, no –
dead, as in i was more alive
that that little smoky nook
could ever fathom.
darling s, still lovely s
i am deader than a bridge
across a sullen southern river
that neither you nor i would cross
in the deadness of the night
and yet i lived, i am sure i lived as both bridge
and as the river, one world to the other,
and o! i rolled and flowed.
darling s, sweet song of s
i am deader than an actor
some scooped out, hollowed grifter
lying for a living, living for the brilliance
of my own bejeweled lies. and yet,
i lived as the best lies live, as a
song you wanted sung to you
by a sweet, persuasive tongue.
darling s, my apple blossom
i am deader than a pontiac, anchorfaced
and open topped, a howler from ypsilanti,
the soul of michigan in my rust.
rust mixed with red dust,
like the guts of some far fetched juju
summoning you as my pomba gira
and in that sweet, lowdown calling, i did live.
darling s, if you are reading this, i’m
dead and frankly, disappointed.
i put your business up in the street,
and that made for damn fine poems
i drove that rainy johnny mercer
from your lighthouse to your whorehouse
to your thunderbird motel, all up
your rumble tumble heart.
darling s, what was it killed me?
hell, i’m dead, i can’t remember!
i suspect it might have been a chronic
lack of seeing you naked. or, perhaps this
limbly decay into desuetude and rot
came not in muscle, but in knowledge
that the women you wasn’t was in fact
never the woman you were.