1.
Never uttering it, yet babbling nonetheless, attempting to reach language’s end. That I may sit silently in it, feeling my circle fade as I breathe in, understanding little, as little as possible, -scending to my Gogolic reign. I have heard its muffled vowels on my chest, its tongue twirl on my neck. And so it gestures in your presence:
the taking of your hand; my forehead as it fuses with yours with closed eyes, breathing in each other’s; my thumb on your cheek.
But that’s with you. By itself: dancing in the streets, hands star-turned; or, standing still, hand in adieu, allowing the earth to move beneath.
2.
I walk:
start lake-side because crashing, get coffee, turn here because smell of wood burning, run my lusting fingers along tree trunks and fences, bloomed flowers as they color my walk, rest here because daffodils and birds’ sweet sing and how lush the grass and world stops…resume because child’s laugh pierces stillness, turn here because neon lights, stop and get drink because I need to use their
bathroom, drink, drink, catch smile ‘cross bar, drinks, talk music, dance dizzy, hand to cheek because leading, feel world spinning in attempt to catch up for lost time, kiss:
while bar watches, while stars shine for, while blue flowers turn towards, while dancers dance ’round, while horns and strings and syncopates, with cherried lips and perfume and bending bed and wailing pillows, while warm wind caresses and lake-smell mixes: as flowers try to mimic our scent, birds our Davidic song, everything our touch.
3.
It’s the same ache: sister, mother, lover, friend. But it expresses itself differently depending. The fused foreheads are the same, the same
hands-in, the same touched cheek, the same grazed knee. It’s we who draw lines, we confuse scents and eye-catches and fingers-twined. She’s
mastered her language, we need only learn it.
Scribblings of a Drunkard 