|Photo : LeeLa|
Three days into the sixth month of the year,
The heat gives us no respite.
Sometimes the days are longer,
Stretching interminably, melting into one another,
Like our faces melt in the dazzling slow
The mornings, however, are different, Junebug.
Quietly tingling in our blood,
The mornings turn everything into exactly that shade
Of yellow that we pick out when writing
Love letters to childhood sweethearts.
The nights, too, are peaceful, though
Always promising to bring down a storm,
And never delivering.
The breeze plays about our cheeks and
Whispers laughing secrets into our ears;
Secrets that we remember to ourselves and smile
When the scorching Sun God Tyrant of Heaven
Threatens to unravel our being in
The year flows away
And the calender strips slowly, unable to bear the heat,
Each page restlessly torn away from the whole.
The green grass smells of a slightly sweet burning,
Soothed by the early morning dew.
This summer is worse than the others, Junebug.
Send me endless love and laughter,
Letters on icy strips,
Sign me burning kisses on hail.
Write me cold winters, and read me never-ending
Michel Foucault Dances in Discos
Michel Foucault dances like a squat skeleton
Through the streets of the city at night.
He pretends that no one sees him do it, but
He doesn't know my binoculars are trained on him,
Through a circular hole in my window.
A hole in my lens, a hole in his meaning
A hole in the very Order of Things.
When the world goes to sleep,
Michel Foucault abandons discourse,
And dances in gaudy discos
Till both his feet fall off.
When the world is burning
And you're talking about Ikea,
Don't be surprised if the flames
Get in through the glass shutters
And consume every last piece
of your furniture.