You are an interesting child, lady, and
you have horsies. You walk the empty path
and sing the boring art objects
into antiquity. The rasp of your
voice is of the most brutal cuteness,
as the chaff of love floats around
you, dancing on the air. Also: mountains and
rock formations…stuff like that. Fresh skin
rubbed off, made quaint, polished and set under
glass for others to see. Each piece
is a keystroke lingering in the dust,
each finger to type a specimen
placed in an ancient jar. Each fleck
of matter I create, each liquid,
is stolen away by the terlet.
The air carries off the easy meaning,
leaving the echoes of embarrassing honesty–
carrion out of fashion, out of time.
Faking innocence is an art, much like the prolonged
sex-stare, the no-skin-talk-tease.
Each of these you mastered before
the monsters made you eat human flesh.
Something you couldn’t help but like. And that’s OK.
I get it. I’m the dude you can trust to tell.
For your salvation I utter comedic prayers,
eaten by this deity or that. I can make heaven
flow from your bored, I’M COOL behavior
that comes from, you know, childhood, for one,
or not knowing how to skateboard,35
not wearing the jeans that everybody wore.
You name each ritual before
it is tagged, sent to the mild gates.
I briefly acknowledge our difference
in age. Rain putters on windowsills
and ominous butterflies signal
bad shit on the horizon.
And we know. We know…
that we are both at our best when asleep.
(from Alex Smith’s Lux, p. 34)