A Blasphemous Bleeding On a Sacrosanct Space

On the thirteenth day there was
August. A hot steamy August like new blood
pooling in the middle of the
dust-dogged road. He didn't know what he was doing,
that one: bored with July,
the new month was birthed like roadkill
fledgling, atrocious and abrupt
killed off before it even knew it had been alive


I am in the middle of a street. There are
those white scratchy flowers that smell of semen
(How do I know the smell of semen?
,well now you know.) But the branches
are heavy with armfuls of profuse
white and they wish to shower on me
their incipient blessings, uninvited
and I can't even imagine
what mortification to be a tree
and not able to stop yourself from blooming
into obscene armloads of flowers that stink stink
stink



There is a tic in my eye
and I am scared to cross
the street for fear I will blink
[blink-blink]
and won't see won't hear
the white jetplane skimming past all the firetrucks
and black Harley Davidsons and slow pickups
and ramming straight into my
painful ribs


He said, let there be blood. And there was
blood, blossoming between my legs like
an awful rose. Each petal I counted,
even the ones
that slithered like to the ground,
turned dead-leaf brown



But I remembered your face
and how you kept your head on my stomach
and kissed it clean
and kissed it pale and white
So under this pungent pollen snow-fall
I keep walking, head bent,
the tic in my eye
the bomb in my heart
tick-ticking


And now the whites of my eyes are bloodshot
with a sunken secret rage.

Dear god I loved you too much
That was the torn beginning of
the blood upon the page.