St. Valentine's Day
Is about hearts and well dressed gangsters.
Sheet rock boxes cover the hills, inside them
women spray Lysol against the villagers
of their dreams while beneath adobe churches
the halls echo with the manic laughter
of fallen kings. The heart beats or is
beaten, a rag of rotting skin being beaten
from within while the streets remain the same.
The gunmen in the windows are regulars
I call them each by name, they're drinking
take out coffees and the crosses on their throats
glisten like beer kegs at lynchings.
Today I'll stuff envelopes with all kinds
of organs, mailing, my love in livers, spleens,
and kidneys, maybe wear clown clothes and shovel
surplus body parts from a helicopter, it'll
be St. Veterans Day, covering the streets
with the ingredients of victory till people
move slow through the goo; all this show
of triumph and love's a soldier zipping bodies
into long plastic bags.
I thought about death.
The birch trees were so wet
they looked illuminated.
They were my first birch trees.
I thought about death all day.
Imagine the heart bursting into a 1,000 razor blades
working their way out of you and disappearing
into several points on the horizon. They drag you away.
Your head banging on each bump is a white horse on the stage
of an empty theater counting to infinity. The newspaper's blood
is the valentine's heart; distant. I must go far away.