ONE.

“breathe me,”

cries the magician,

smoking a cigarette.

his lips on my lips

his hands on my hips

his forked tongue, my dragon lungs 

blaze

with the fire he left in me.

“am i alive?” i ask

but the sun does not answer to the moon that shines because of it

nor does victor to his MONSTER

clay to the fingers that command it

sculpting scars from the impetuous

bruises from my ignorance

only a god knows how to save me

and cure me with a fist

but HE —

is michaelangelo sublime

pygmalion and red wine

“breathe me,” one more time

until my chest rises with his breath

eyes rolling into my head and staying open

open.

“this city is a jail yard.

is my name still locked inside?

does the beat of my heart still

pulse

through the streets

like the current of an electric fence?

do watchtowers lean

in to listen to the echoes of my voice?

when i ask if i’m alive, that is

i mean to say,

am i power.

will the skyline bend

emperors descend

for me as they do for you?”

the magician only laughs

and conjures in two hands

everything i need

but don’t yet understand

pokerchips for pentacles 

a bottle for a cup

switchblades for swords

a pen for a wand.

if one thing is the same

since i saw the city last

it’s that i don’t know what love is

but i do know what’s not.

his altar-ed mind.

this sordid shrine.

his hollow inside.

idol hands do my lover‘s work.

and the sidewalk cracks under the magician’s feet.

am i there too?

(i think i liked it better with my eyes closed.)