Bridge of Sighs

strength is often mistaken

for slashing down the underneath cold Eskimo Moon,

fully outfitted with legs apart,

flashing bad yellow eyes

at that dark-howling-anyhow moronic wind

that keeps these vacant shafts running full blast,

still mining forsaken crumbs of love

scattered by we dumpsters

who inevitably must confess to

their stubborn abstract loneliness

over there on B Hill

I can feel it when you breathe,

even through my broken boots and rags

even through your flesh of lies,

as I go pissing off the Bridge of Sighs

I dont think I was dressed for this fight, my love,

this punkass struggle to unearth my feminine,

all the while

dreaming of your hands folded inside shades of sleep,

rain washing away your victories

further ingredients for this Poetry

from last year’s kid

safe now underground,

this body still trembles for a shave,

the Well,

remains the Reservoir we drink from.

our hands, gently, cupped as one

underneath our bed,

Bridge of Sighs perceives visions growing dim,

cold water slapping upside my neck,

miracles as bookmarkers

reminding me of times drowned by words

nothing left to face these strange smacked feelings,

buried deep,

lost

astrology sandcastles castrating Neapolitan boardwalks,

Ocean of Winter erupts into a calling nearness,

Siren lures those sailors with

plans to get clear,

to escape from this smothering harbor

catch a ride to freedom from interpretations

and fingernails chipped, broken from too many pawnshop visitations

of soul singers beckoning from piled up horizontal Motown heaps

oh taken for granted virgin,

you began the cycle

inspecting yourself,

with pride and profundity,

with those green eyes

blinded,

resistant to limp across the Bridge of Sighs

in green canal Italy I dreamt of your oval face,

this perfect cameo

veiled in climax and smoke,

and the mystery of endless nights

rebounded into symphonies,

we could have flown to the sun

without Icarus's waxed wings,

without purpose

without conviction

yet now

dropped here at this fork in time,

one path remains

past our burnt ashes,

one path transgressing the mindless sea,

firmament soft as your hands into mine

interlaced up and down the Bridge of Sighs

southern desert scrub oaks seem scanter this season.

eagles are mating with vultures.

pyres are being readied for we first-born sons.

I am startled from all this dust and mercy,

brown uniforms

diseased peacocks

the obtuse banner of lonely nights

men’s assholes, tunnels from which nothing of worth can escape.

we cannot deal with all this simplicity we Children of the City.

all we have ever know of truth were the hours passed

inside ivy covered parks and libraries.

we have changed our names so often to protect

the little romance left inside.

these frontiers must therefore remain our prisons

into shadow

into freedom,

straight into the blade that waits to fall passively upon our heads,

our tongues that want too much

our graves where monsoon winds

decimate our rusty houses of wood and sex,

it is so very long since we were August strong!

once, not so long ago, we were the spies

escaping into Canada

across the Bridge of Sighs

so no, I cannot betray the Butcher who deals with me with her blade.

I cannot betray the Blessings that pulverize me with candor and trust.

I cannot betray the Lamb who looks to me with her innocence.

I cannot betray the Bedouin who embraces me with his language.

I cannot betray the Blood that explodes inside me with vengeance.

I cannot betray the Music that evokes rhythm and harmony and silence.

I cannot betray the Woman who tempts me with her nakedness,

embedded in blindness.

I cannot betray the Women who offer me bread and empathic eyes.

no, I will not betray this Freedom Ghost tapping my shoulder right now.

so yes, I can only betray Myself,

and this, my Song,

that I hum,

soaring,

jumping off this Bridge of Sighs.

Bisbee

1978