It's about boys.
Read it here!
Read it here!
Don't be too eager to ask
what the gods have in mind for us,
What will become of you,
what will become of me,
What you can read in the cards,
or spell out on the ouija board,
It's better not to know.
Either Jupiter says
This coming winter is not
after all going to be
The last winter you have,
or else Jupiter says
This winter that's coming soon,
eating away the cliffs
Along the Tyrrhenian Sea,
is going to be the final
Winter of all. Be mindful.
Take good care of your vineyard.
The time we have is short.
Cut short your hopes for longer.
Now as I say these words,
the time has already fled
Leuconoë-- Hold on to the day.
Also, I relish the times when it’s super miserable, when I haven’t slept or am hungover. If you can sit down and write when you’re completely uninspired, completely miserable, hating everything you’ve ever written or thought, and just stay in the chair until something happens, then you know you’re going to be OK.
DMT, ayahuasca ceremonies in the depth of the lush, leafy, Mayan ruins. A shaman waves his stick. Everything turns to liquid plastic and silk.
Burlesque atop a circus pony, a whip cracking, a stocking peeling back, silk scarves, champagne corks, crimson lipstick, and the midget ringleader in the top hat walks in circles, cackling at the big top.
The gods pick up the globe like a bowling ball and send it down the centre of lane. A crow is laughing from its belly. The birds flock round the skies on the surface; the birds form a patchwork blanket with the weft and warp of their wings.
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.