typewriter poem

I gave you my typewriter,

its mechanical heart,

its smudged black letters

which need violence

            to take shape upon the page—

 

but I didn’t give you my poems,

shit,

they fly around my face and neck

like gnats or mosquitoes,

draw blood that mixes with sweat

running down my chest,

even violence doesn’t drive them away,

transparent, irridescent,

swirling in fat yellow sunset rays,

and in your smell of magnolias and the sea—

 

slap slap

they disperse

but then return,

droning in my ears,

making humming sounds

just like the sounds we made

with our bodies pressed together,

I should’ve locked the poems in the typer case

when I gave it to you

so they couldn’t buzz around my eyes,

invoke our tangles

of sex and breath,

but I guess it wouldn’t matter

since even now I’m

writing in blue ink

writing with hands like tools to

            mercy-kill some wounded animal

writing with fingers like bars

to encage my own heart—

 

some ghost of me and you inheres,

insistent

as some avant garde performance artist

off-off-off Broadway

haughty and superior

saying look at me, listen to me,

nothing matters more than

me in my black turtleneck

me in this moment of history in which

the past is dead

tradition is dead

civilization is dead

we are breasting a new paradigm

a new age of

freedom from imprisonment

freedom from love

freedom from each other,

an era in which

 

you type French on my blue Italian typer

and I write poems to you

with blue ink,

with my hands,

in sunset light breathing by the sea,

in magnolia light blooming through my lips and tongue,

there’s not a ping-pong ball or pool cue in sight,

everything is an undifferentiated mass

especially me and you, me and you, me and you,

the evening comes in like a tide

moving over me,

moving somewhere over you,

scribble scribble, clack clack.