Laptop to Lapdance

D   isgraced writer indentured to serve
   out his days in a
prison of short sentences, incapable
of articulating any way to
escape, a spontaneous, vicious act
of kindness, a nocturnal faith,
scars dissolve a thirst for
salt in the undivided light,
ballpointed, circling a fragmented life,
embossing loss raising up inked-out
paths double-crossed, with pain soluble
in art, in a dream,
the gods in assembly decree

how soon death is to
come to me, swiftly as
I came to you, disastrously,
disaster, as Franny Choi’s poetry
reminds me, stems from an
etymology meaning “without a star,”
A. O. Scott put it
best in his New York
Times analysis of the opening
paragraph of Franzen’s Corrections: “Like
the God of Genesis, the
author is giving form to
the void.” in an hour

of cotton-mouthed wordlessness, when my
mouth was a month of
meaninglessness, my nearest neighbour was
fire, breath wet with unutterable
desire for another, desire from
a moment beyond truth, resurrecting
a sacred text of sexual
awakening, cleaning the mirror of
my skeleton, with all the
forensic reality of a Catholic
crucifiction fantasy, exposed bones and
withered dicks weathering against the
intensity of visual density making

explicit the obscenity of belief’s
need to be at once
relic and relished, pass on
my demons in my demos,
a neon plasma of a
man whose brilliance can only
be safely experienced through his
veil of glass, lest its
mirror shatter and scar his
admirers, The Ashen Choir, laptop
to lapdance my followers mimic
lyrics mined from this mind
of mine they swallow dry…