Monty

poppy hooded how rain hit you then like a feeling you could not

get out of, but how could you know this was the last time you would

be together and so every thing you tell each other in this moment

will be so unbearable in retrospect, but time is inside of itself

and you are not invited to its machinations only your own voice

testing its faith faintly, balloons draw your eyes away and wide, if you only knew how much I love the idea you inhabit, without skin, you are

a story, with skin, you are a song, and the words are 

musical so only a qualified magician could play the right notes 

in the right way and from out of my ear pull rabbits and the coat you 

wore and your brown hair against my cheek "I'll send you post cards from the road" this is how you hold the memory afterwards but the 

impression which had you then was that you were both something

for each other, even though neither of you knew exactly what that 'something' was.

***

Monty X

One day you will

return the favor

the flavor of hip skin

and eye shadow-less

loops of enduring

through the brokenness

your teeth

like Greek sculptures

smuggled from

wreckage,

the wild land

between your breasts

setting fire & burning down

the meadows

along the spine of your back

vertebreak-me-open

& place me

underneath your tongue

cracking, face to face

along the edges of you

into water you drew

from out of the earth

with a spell, a heavy sigh, a shrug

of your shoulders, smoldering sultry

forgive-me-nots

and 'how do I look

under this light?'

like sunken treasure

wrapped in rainbow paper,

like a shadows edge

punctuated by car headlights

on the side of the road

in a storm that will not end

like get-away-from-me

I can't be this close

to open doors

to paradise,

'oh please, I'm just your idea

of paradise, your voodoo doll,

your comfort

blanket, your safety break,

I'm as much of a mess

as anyone else'

& I know this, I know,

but still,

aren't ideas born this way

in the first,

the second place?

Can we reach the second place

barefooted, messy,

fantastically

smelly creatures

walking the great unknown?

Unknowing greatly- small bone

to small bone

sedimented Autumn

laid open

on tarmac

wild in our skins

fifty different Japanese words for rain

how when I say

each one

I mean

I love you

when I say

I love you

I mean I don't know

what to do with myself

paradise shuddering

beneath our eye lids

daylight closing

our bodies up

like thick walls

kissed with ivy

I'd finger your poison

until my heart explodes

but that's not love

it is obsession.

***

Monty XI

You are barnyard

covered in early morning mist

you are things to do

places to be

tongue that cracks open

peanut shells at 2 am

and leaves the casings

like empty bullets scattered

on the bed

and when my hand reaches

for you I come up with only air

& there are two versions

of this poem

one that I've written

and the one that I wish

I wrote, with a single

word, like glass or aspen

leaves that tremble

from the most inconsequential

brush of air

against its veins

when I think of you

the words get stuck in my mouth

and I don't know

sometimes if I'll ever

be able to say them

to you in this way

without you laughing

tongue-in-cheek

mossy eyed & barely skin

underneath skin the heat of sun

airing its origins out

on your fingertips

like porcelain falling from a shelf

in a family home

I run to catch you

but come up with only air.

***

Monty XII

If I could only write of mountains

& orange groves in June

mealybugs that dig into the pulp

juice at the bottom of the crate

despite the pesticide flowering

death knells with each bite

each tug the unfortunate

famished specks of only-doing-our-part

make, a taste like tang & welcome

to your death aphid number forty two

and counting, Pedro & Manuel

carrying out wooden barrells

full of ruined fruit and kicking

their boots along the side of it

as if to say 'ah fuck it, only gringo's

buy these oranges anyway'

but no, I am compelled to write

something about you, Monty, who

I know so little about really,

besides the basics, how your facial

expressions actually match the enthusiasm

in your voice & how your eyes thread all of this

together like trinitarian transubstantiation

hello and goodbye

each breath-muscle you exercise

like salvific wine

externalized into outer shells

of pinwheel blue

the carnival lights you swallow

until your belly glows

and you become like a beacon

in the night,

a light house for lost souls

weary

or wonder filled

and I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-I'm-saying

so upturned

under the smoky wood

this keepsake of flame

and I imagine we sit along different sides

of the same compass

one hand touching the other's location

letting go, coming undone

it's not so bad really.

***

Monty XIII 

light on or off

you are still roving

river beds

up my spine

let's settle this

you are spotty dream dripping

in my palm

& when I close my hand

I'm a complete fist

waving at the sun

as if to say: you did this to me,

didn't you?

If my eyes were green

we could twin our moss beds

together

you and I

shaking wet

& removing our skins

in front of each other

our fingers so electric

when we touch

we light the room

& the glow

mutually swallowed

why can't I feel my arms

when they're wrapped around you

(that's called a hug you don't want to end)

serotonin

addling – fucking up

the heart

hole

dug clean until I can sleep

all dirt deep and not remember

your smell- smiling

slipping into dusk

ash can of howl

& yelping sideways

you can't be kept

can't be held

in my arms

long enough

deep enough

to undo this damage.

***

 Monty XVI 

This peeling behind the mortar

left wandering

across three thousand islands of sleep

how close you aren't

in this dream I had

can't tell you how long I've waited

to spell my own name

without imploding at the last letter

without pulling the wool over my own eyes

it's this way when you breathe & I stand right next to you

counting each one

you ask “what number are we on?”

& I tell you “number one, still number one”

another way of saying “this life has not been so kind to me”

hold the hour (my body)

against your skin

I will count us down

to the beginning

that irreclaimable moment

your first throaty question on the orange bench

outside of eternity

how do I get back to that... who am I going

to turn to in the night

with empty arms

holding shadow

sister to the trees in winter

any wind could break me now.

James Diaz