kris t kahn
ANNOTATED VERSIONS OF HISTORIES
AND MORE GENERIC TELLINGS OF
AUTOBIOGRAPHIES
on the bank lined with hyacinths
shooting their own blue off into
patches of glass stream,
you spin on a makeshift
embroidery frame:
tree torsos for
paneling before saying,
Oh fuck, i meant to dream of
strings on a lute / the stream
green in the eyes of frogs.
in the forest your citythings
mean no thing and
not even the thoughts, mechanized,
can measure up. it is sad but
in these songs i am unbrocaded by you
as a result of my resoluteness,
then woven
back into
tall again tales
like a bard
or a baby
ruby. by these rivers you will forget all traces of city
in the back of my throat which, nightly,
stained your tongue, your rank bruised body:
tattooing myself on you, blue overexposed images
of me and my legs splayed
stars against those buildings.
you tried that once. for nine whole months.
in the end, the planes came
with god and gross heroics and uprooted
you: the river started
running in your head at that
pure very moment crash;
if they'd been made of thread, silk to be specific,
they'd have ex- or imploded wars or so ago.
along the bank, garlands upon garlands of
histories both involving and not
involving my blue baring of leg or
your parried dressmaking for
trees naked and on-the-rag.
the smell of pages, onion-skinned
paths toward the water
where we dunk and dunk
the other's head under
for eons at a time: let breathe,
kiss lips, dunk!, let breathe,
kiss lips --
if you look closely my boy
i am sitting there in oils with laces
up to my neck; i am fresh from the water.
i have convoluted all mysteries
especially those involving dissonance
between lovers: when you come up for air, i allow
you a moment to repudiate. your hands taut with string.
a quick backward drowning.
when i am allowed a respite i merely
open my mouth and say that
to your eyes i much prefer the drowning
before going back under.
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