How about it, Frederick Seidel?
"Fog"
I spend most of my time not dying.
That's what living is for.
I climb on a motorcycle.
I climb on a cloud and rain.
I climb on a woman I love.
I repeat my themes.
. . . . .
Not the spectacle of intimacy. What else are we, if not the eye on our own personae dramatis?
The hidden theaters all portray devastations in plain sight. The mask of eros is blank.
The version of ourself that is reflected everywhere? Or the everywhere that is the version of ourself reflected?
. . . . .
O everywhere I spend my time
not dying.
The palm trees flickering in black and white at night.
And the Green is still reflected.
The sea out there is chanting like the shores
that line the heart with heat. I cannot go to sleep.
I cannot go to sleep;
I sing of darkness. Dogs. Men I love
who do not love me back, and winds
pouring themselves
fast as a drink on a Friday night. Like glances,
those softly lit hearses warm and wound us.
. . . . .
Friends and Strangers, the porn of me.
. . . . .
