I hesitated in putting a lot of long poems tonight
because of the time factor, but I stuck this one in
just because it's nice.
"Prelude of Seven Visitations to an Execution."
Leaves rub against my window.
At night I can hear them growing.
A few times they have attempted to take root in my arm.
Snow on its way from home buries its tracks in the street.
Ghost storms wrap themselves in the cold
and spin away whistling.
I am on fire painting the walls with shadows.
At the ends of my arms stone sleep.
A locust walks across the room with a piece of the hostess
between his teeth.
His coat made from such occasion pulsates.
At 10 midnights crystal lady slithers from the balcony.
Faces poke out from beneath her gown.
They enter the chamber through a hole
created by her imagination.
I am standing at the end of a rope
where astral equations are being seared to my eyelids
by veterans of domestic tortures.
Their general who is made of wax is standing to near the fire.
Staring up from the rug he says, becoming a hero depends greatly
on dying at the right time.
It is 10:27.
Yawns are being slipped into the drinks.
I am covered with the scars--
I'm covered with scars of confectionery ribbons.
Patriots come to lick my purple heart.
Roots grow out of my feet.
At my throat lizard sing Byzantine anthems.
In the experimental garden, I kiss
the marble breasts of plastic statuettes
hoping they will come to life.
But they only go on living.
Spiders are digging graves along the corners of their mouths
if only they would stop smiling.
When midnights crystal lady signals,
the floor of the scaffold cringes.
As I dangle above the black air, bankrupt patrons of lost arts
move their hands from pockets to throats.
Tomorrow they will buy this poem.