Soul Carver
8.06.06

He’s my vagabond attraction, jostling
over musket-shade dusks, riding straight through
to a break-neck dawn. ‘There’s something beautiful
about a street riddled with my music’, he says,
planting seeds of luscious instability in my
parched paper eyes. I want everything, now.

-

These talks are not the cosmic explosion I was promised
when you fell up to my level, they are just
you, dripping with dark kool-aid, whispering names
no one has ever called me before. It is the high
you offered in an elongated wrong, but I’d much rather watch
you lose control, and pretend it’s over me.

-

He’s an artist, a carver of souls, preaching
the brilliance of his work to every mailbox and blank canvas.
In these wind-sheathed shields, these
sketch-inked self-names,
there must be something strong, but
my tundra eyes see only a reflection of change.