EMIL CIORAN In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.
Tuesday, August 4, 2020
Day changes from cannon to morning glory
her body dances death dances in the prell light
beads strung out all through Japan’s public parks, my head,
light green eyes of the birds that break branches to build homes there.
she tore the page, “Varieties of Emeralds”
from little sister’s picture encyclopedia.
I watched this all with a spike in my vein from a top floor window
I felt the blood pass from my arm into the glass tube above it…..
then it was rainy bonsai everywhere for me
and black masses across my brain like planets on solar maps
paper secrets I used to believe lined the open closet shelves
her body split and floated into the air forests like astral monkeys.
It’s there, the air the body the soft green day:
your life cutting through the light noise of New York City’s traffic dawn.