MattSpire

I keep dreaming about those big, expressionless eyes. All black with no visible corneas, unblinking, staring out forever and ever.Many animals have eyes like that. When I was young, maybe eight years old, my father brought home a silver cockatiel. I’d begged for months. It wasn’t even my birthday, or a holiday, and he was a single father struggling to stay in medical school. But somehow he’d made it happen. The bird was one of a few splurges my father ever managed. Someone had already named her Lily.Lily had those big, black eyes. You couldn’t even tell what direction she was looking unless she cocked her color-mottled head, a curious cres...

I.As though your high cheekbone Was cut for sanctuary, A Rushmore of philosophies, I am moved to feel your face.And this is it. False geography. But, you say, the moon's man still pulls? Childish games, a bickering brain Liquored in halves.Meet me here. Meet you there.I'll meet you in the center of it all. Coney Island, on the barbed wire Tilt-o-whirl catching heads Like trophiesFor orgasmic sacrifices. Dance naked with me around the purple fire And the pink-blue halogen haze. Tomorrow!--we bear child.I'll cut off it's limbs, by damn, To make it all fit.II.I've sent you a broken crab's leg From this swelling shore of war And the buzzing fi...

This is the spasm before the touch,          Or a larynx stuck in the flaring void          Of stillborn heartbeats.     Before the West was known          It yawned my Eastern glow,          Multiplied by the eye of the fly          In a thousand flowing oceans' Impulsive glances                                             And in their blow,I am the drunkard before the liquor,          Tongue-stuck on the kiss          Of a bottleneck     Before the wind dies down.