SPLINTERS
They must have been waiting all night
for someone like you,
these big boys who dance the dance
of an earthquake in slow motion,
their great flat faces immobile,
hands fisted but ready
for a quick blow in the bathroom
or some twirly muscle fantasy.
Crosses glimmer from the sweat
and sheen of their chests.
You free their smiles.
Such nice white teeth.
They give you the nod
and you sway, bend your body
into the current of synth rhythms,
the black plastic shockwave of the club,
and you become the blur on the dance floor,
your witch’s mane whirling,
your sacred wrists offered
to the stratosphere of laser light.
I claim the wall as my own
and wait for the firing squad,
for the fire sliding down my throat
to strike the depths of my stomach.
The music hammers my eyes shut.
I never knew
I could sleep standing up.
A voice inside commands
connect the dots / purge the arteries / sound alarms
seize some illumination from this abyss…
Just a tiny shot, a splinter,
it won’t hurt at all…
Why do family photographs
look like strangers
and voices on the phone
become recordings ten centuries old,
why do newspapers click off a body count
in this age of desire, why
do I reach for my zippo
when I know it’s only
a cheap tiny torch…
Besides, it’s too late.
Your ghost dance is done.
The witch is awake but
she’ll never sing again.
You stagger into my arms
and call me another’s name.
What the hell. I pull you
to me and you drive
your teeth into my flesh
as the music pounds on
and on
and my head floods
with clouds and rain.
Boston, 1989
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