In Bed at the Adlon


Never sit
with your back to
an uncurtained
                               the suicide recital
                               raging on outside means you’ll
                               either find yourself
                               shot, or your fears
projected onto
enemy lines
filled with what you
couldn’t give
                               little gifts you said
                               you’d deliver in time
                               but you didn’t
                               so now you’re sitting behind
a glass, compressed
passing time
specimental, speculating
causes of your opening
                               how the crowd got inside


My artistic output
                               or my artistic pulpit?
                               What is it?
                               from within
by redolent
donors digging in
Beauty will be convulsive
                               or it will not be
                               says silence
                               like a prophet
                               The scream is
the operation
through which
the entire body
escapes through

                               the mouth
                               a moth rejecting
                               f(l)ame, that glittering
                               aperture parting


its bonds enough
so we can see
a revolution
of lamb skewered
                               into renewal—
                               the revelation
                               reddening our seams
                               tearing from
closed eyes
promises melting
into pieces of the chosen one
                               it all ends
                               when its beginning
                               has been remembered
                               how you sent
a glance, and I inked
a letter requesting
your presence
which went