Secrets of the Inner Mind

The Age of Gold cracked me up last night,
asters and sparrows to be exact,

that unrelenting knot in
the choral fire. It’s good exercise, to get out

on stage, to stand in the silvered chamber
and deny emptiness, when the pocket falls so deep

one could mark anything out over the top.

The India ink drops continuously,
its likeness, still Helen as phantom
not the truth of the state of her body

but being awash in a sound uprooted.

The desk is still a symbol I pile things on,
pin down elegies, illegible dates, introductions scrawled

on slender backs of envelopes, receipts, small machine-like
cloud chambers, talon disconnected.

Sunlight burns my feet putting away
the wet mop, where I am stopped

from almost killing myself. All that wobbling of the lens
nonsense, I will cling to the truth of the soundtrack

tearing through the unveiling:
Jeanne Moreau’s scepter coated in dust
a darkness poured from the open door, crowned

enameled teeth of Tyrannosaurus rex

Their portrait is crushed
to the point of flowers

Their lines are reaching
arms out from the center

Their lace is torn over
the image at points

a flame-like insistence
flaring this all up from behind

one piss-driven, lifelike icicle
the diamond district through a downpour

past the love-sick dungeons
of Dante, a cleaving after in Sappho,

what remains of a dialogue?
The small, blobbed cellular enclosure

slipping it into strings
letting it wither

No god but the act

creator eternally rested
in light

fears for my life
dissolved in the booth

largely unknown
fire exit back/ of the hotel closet door
satin sheets

light foot thunder

lover impaled/ outside of that world

cutting young poets

much slack

and the box for the board

remains of the maze

spit out from a star
More Poems by Cedar Sigo