A Second Poem for Ryuichi Sakamoto

I taste. I salivate.

I have all these daydreams that come out at night.

And I know, I know.

They all fly away when I turn on the light.

I’m awake, I’m awake.

I have those bloody dawn eyes and those psychotic shakes.

I’ve pushed, I’ve pushed through.

I crawl on the ground and I shake in each room.

So loud, So close.

Nothing stops the agony except a few pokes

on those pearled white and black piano planks,

that feel so much like tile, this is my favorite place.

Have you ever heard a song,

that doesn’t have words but you still sing along?

I’ve heard. And I’ve had,

divine night ideas that slipped out of dawn’s grasp.

I’m here, I’m awake.

I’m not sure if I slept, but if I did it felt fake.

My eyes were closed, I was laying in my room

just watching those daydreams play on a loop.

Could someone here tell me, how I could say,

without sounding totally hopelessly vague,

that now it’s four in the morning, and I’ve just realized

this song shot God from a cannon and into my eyes.

On Love: While Listening To The Penguin Cafe Orchestra

I stand in our secret corner of snapped grass

and aim everything left inside of this liquid

soul, bled out of unrecallable dreams

and bandages, at you, and our new fumes.

Cigarettes and sex, recently reckless,

sensible breakfasts. Yes, we’re waking up

earlier, per your request. But it’s all demented

charades, my stomach aches are brighter now.

My words are still everything and nothing

they were supposed to be, and for some cosmic

reason it all feels suddenly wrong. The sunlight

won’t change that. But I’ve been taught by

that sphere of fire, so alien, so tranquilized,

that if I can wake up early for anyone, It’s you.