Two Brunets


Atwitter through twisting thickets littered • with knotted appendages, whispers tipping • off fingers tell of almost • but will not tell all, • hint at vestiges of adventures • the waxed paper images of • which still linger, conquests dust • jacketing newsprint tracks its must • along, all over sheets even • memories think need no other • reason to be soiled than • heeding beliefs to be sold • by voices no longer heard, • a mélange of vile words • dirtied all the more by • this ménage of twine binding • them into bricks of testaments, • water saturating pages on top • of which two pheasants who, • ever since forgetfulness made foreign • their headlines, choose yellowed nuances • •

          on which to nest, oblivious • •

to those subtleties of politics • and attendant controversies these monoliths • of abandoned chronicles now resist, • bundled newspapers themselves more content • to just exist as is • than permit posterity a perch • for researchers to wrest from • the underbrush of history, that • wilderness of secrets whose forest • this is, this wood where • trash and treasure of better • days mingle, where two pheasants • linger, two peasant lovers begging • for glimpses of each other • under cover of dusk, but • what parallel the travel of • these pilgrims does touch is • that path of flesh two • birds witness, the antipode of • love’s nest, that bed of • bush into which lust draws • •

          its appetite once undressed, it • •

was here then that two • men, two brunets, in presence • of subdued yesterdays refused to • elude the nudity of truth • both had for so long, • since their very youth, hotly • pursued, wholly unmoved by what • holy feud told them they • could not in good faith • do, no fools, these dudes • foreswore in their souls, knitted • together as though they were • one sweater of affection whose • warmth was worn by both, • an oath to forego full • communion and sow discord where • disobedience needed to occur, in • protest both ran from being • condemned to being held in • hands eager to take up • this cross only they could • •

          understand, barrelling down roads coarse • •

with too many grains of • salt to be taken aback • by looks of critics, these • heretics a duo determined to • go through with it, to • get what no presbyter could • prevent them, in this vast • darkness of hearts hushed by • shadows, from living without regret • or consequence, a kiss each • would give in exchange for • a glimpse of this experience • in eyes each other lifted • from under heavy curtains of • sorrowed lids to let in • light, igniting for once forgiveness, • this time not the unkindness • of the type bartered for • a penance inside the prison • cell of a confessional, here • in the auburn mourning of • •

          mahogany throats echoed out a • •

chortle two pheasants poured all • over these brunets both, moss • of velvet offering up its • purse of browned gold and • greyed emerald to fill with • the men’s chorus this coming • together of two breaths, itself • an antiphon at the performance • of which tongues entered mouths • the way sweat illumined by • votive candles fills enemy sanctuaries, • dripping into corridors vestiges of • words ignored by the pure • for what here can be • heard are prayers only sinners • perform, and these two men, • how their fur, determined to • take a stand against being • trod underfoot by those who • do not understand, stands and • demands to be understood by • •


the four hands of their • own guided by moans, in • which each strand is uncurled • and devotion affirmed, how then • and since, a return to • this wilderness has been a • return home, two pheasants resplendant • in feathers and bone, jewelled • eyes tigered by rims of • sunset complemented by spectrums of • dark earthtone and undercurrents of • pious off-white ivorying the coast • of their coats, cutting close, • almost blurring with subtle delight, • the line drawn by nature • dividing what is below with • what is above, night draped • over day, shades of brown • and lace of kohl tracing • the shape of breast and • neck and tail, how like • •

          them two men reveal themselves • •

to appear, two brunets who, • years ago, evading the noose, • made it on the pile • of news where two pheasants • remember having spent their own • exile whenever some huntsman and • his kin gather to ravage • someone worth so much more • than being damaged by hunger • only thirst can quench, thus • it was and always has • been, man pursues another whose • attention he cannot get, whose • affection he will not win, • no sir, not with an • attitude so determined to end • what really both secretly wish • to begin, friendship which transcends • inhibition, knowing to doubt love • is a crime without conviction, • a grave crisis of faith • •

          when love is just a • •

religion in which another person • is believed in, so this • they hymn, those itinerant witnesses • showing up at every wedding, • those two pheasants ever present • anywhere anyone even thinks for • one moment of some soul • other than his own, this • psalm is what this troubadour • minstrels for them, filled to • my brim with remorse for • having ignored how much I • longed for him, my own • brunet left for loss in • the wilderness of my heart • no amount of wit or • charm, no gift how intricate, • exquisite, or expensive, can convince • to forget, how cruel this • poet was to his first • Muse when he was just • •

          a kid, into this forest • •

those ignored by us undertake • an arduous pilgrimage while we • make the mistake of thinking • they will wait for tides • to change, an impossible feat • when oceans of tears flood • a lake, and only ink • escapes to fill pages with • dirt which persuades readers an • artist’s conceit is worth all • the hell they must pay • to take turns taking from • his myth a meaning he • never even intended, to sway • what he has left unsaid • into what they will say • he did, in this way • lost love lives on, if • not in their hearts then • in the heads of strangers • oblivious to the true two • •

          men for whom this was • •

written, heretic brunets relentless in • living without a lie what • doctrine learned within doctors of • philosophy deny even exists, at • least not without their oversight • and prerequisites, this innate erudition • which only emotion teaches and • no amount of money or • theoretical study will ever get • you a degree in, the • only connection to benefit initiation • into this mystery is to • be connected to what universally • moves through you personally, to • accept that all which was, • now is, and shall be, • is inside everyone of us, • the eternal that needs to • be turned on to be • called upon in workings of • spiritual alchemy, turn the key.