A Love That Rusts on the Tongue


The raw power I’m confronting
is my own, not yours,
a love that rusts on
the tongue. How tragedy can
swallow an artist. A rosary

of moments, in an aching
insistence of an instant, all
by one undone. Through its
yawning openings withdraw throatings one
dares not to go on

floating, for fear of flaunting
for worldlings what one has
become! (If these pixels could
talk… Easy, virtuoso. If you’re
going to be a product,

become one of your own
imagination. Making come into being
some variation of your rejection
of the dangers of materialism.
By spirit translating into art

what defies explanation: you as
a being defined only by
describing what you’re not. An
impossible god worshipped in thought,
in theory, in silent poetry,


not in speech or prayer.
Taking care in your living
its image to spare no
detail. Bleeding experience between the
contours of horror. Begging no

permission, persimmon hands proximate to
death. Flaking between the silver
and the mirror what wealth
cannot be seen here, what
artifact of its rest is

left. Ebony nails depressing its
frame, this artifice reflection spills
into, what illusion rust within
wood contains. Vessel constrains from
escaping the face time waits

to name, this reflection in
ink paper drinks. This fragment
of an incantation’s operation your
reading of these lines refines
to manifestation.) You, dear reader,

are the medium participating in
an act of creation this
pen of mine only steers,
your mind my thoughts’ final
destination! What have you, done.