The sun

I hate the sun when my
heart breaks and the sun beats
down in blistering illuminations
like a wounded, immutable lion
of the soul; like the poignant burn of
life’s electricity, complicity and wonder;
like some pitiless, dogmatic pose

Every age has its witches to challenge
the received order; if she’s certainly
a witch than you’re too feeble to hold her
Where is the constantly in a body
that constantly changes? Before
she leaves I’d hold her hand like this—
How difficult it is to inhabit,

even for a moment,
another person’s skin
There’s this problem with obsessive,
passionate types like me—
the camera lens reveals all kinds
of hidden things but no lens
can touch what I’ve seen

Relentless and pitiless as life
the sun beats down on me
They say he was an extremely
satirical, mercurial, crinkly person—
Debussy, in order to break away
from the influence of Beethoven
had to hate Beethoven—

“Another developed theme in
another god-damned Beethoven string
quartet! How repulsive—Enough!!!”
To love is to throb insecurely
The sun is a self-reflecting mind
We blister in the sun constrained
like a lifetime left behind

You can’t judge me more than me
Bullfighting is mankind’s ritual expression
of stylish savagery; an immutable
disposition of the soul; an unpredictable,
dangerous world with lethal pitiless
consequences (don’t know if I’m the cause
when she leaves); faith’s a

disingenuous mask used to veil
that which is volatile, unstable and dark
You can’t be buoyant when you’re
pulling yourself down like an unhealthy
healer who smokes; like when your
heart breaks and the sun beats; like
how the older you get the more

of yourself you’ll be
When you really see it, see
it for all it’s worth, this world is
truly, obsessively weird—They say
Debussy admired chess and bridge but
was not much of a player—his mind would
wander way too much for such games

“You know, Peter, if you ever learn
to count you wouldn’t be a bad little
fiddle player”— The mind can stifle
in impatience—I’ve been holding
so long I’m not sure what I’m holding
The things we creatures will do in
conditions of disturbance and denial

Sometimes I’m impatient and the
“but” diminution, its feral contradiction,
comes to me too soon; it’s not subtle
or stylish enough—its style busts
Said the true sage “Never say of
anything that I have lost it; say
only that I’ve given it back”



-August 11, 2018-