In Bed With St. Ignatius These Late Antiquity Nights: A Manifesto on Aspiration
st ignatius is an assorted kindness, six lemon merengues
[after a snickers dinner, wolfed down every snapping morsel];
received his treatise, endearingly personal, what a read
unlike this writing hiding more than revealing
checked out his book collection, then an exclamation:
"oh my! you are christian!" as eyes wandered
óone jesus title, one pauline one, whole tome on origenó
one titled "who was a jew?", and we went hysterical
the derridean moment of what that title could possibly mean;
had to clean up his room
its hurricane-swept disorder unchanged since hilary duff visited
after an hour, hadn't observed any critical improvement
["iggy, moving a pile of clothes from one end of the bed
to the other doesn't really clean anything up"];
**********
iggy is a serious catholic, susses out dignity and takes issue
its openness, that lack of tradition [he says the older types
would so come on to me, but decided against one-hit wonders
new-kid pride on the block, passed-around candle in the wind
like this little light of mine and how they're gonna let it shine];
let it shine, on monday, on tuesday, on wednesday, not thursday
because beyoncÈ is "irreplaceable" and people-watching
on friday after the cathars and cappadocians
on saturday between derrida's archive fever and annie dillard
her writing life for the umpteenth back-slapping time];
suddenly struck by need, thoreau a lifestyle return:
"as for the sensuality in whitman's leaves of grass
I do not so much wish that it was not written
as that men and women were so pure
that they could read it without harm";
**********
iggy understands my work-it needs
ósay these butt-gripping thingsó
respects my polemical stance despite its friction against his good
dear beliefs [him dabbling in sacramental theology
whole other schmuel-flash milky way
but we need to construct worlds for ourselves
and rightfully so; iggy abhors people who rage
against the church without any solutionsó
both admit he'll work for the good from within
me doing the scott-weiland good from without];
what kind of friends will we be, ten hubris years from now?
iggy is real like a celestine prophecy
intimate as sade, her pack-a-day kiss of life
[whipping off his mambo shirt, trying on a bright pink tee
emblazoned with "flirt", then pulling on a baby blue other
shirt off, flexed pecs; pants down, lap-dance showó
he's not wearing underwear, enough for me to say
"girlfriend, I really only go for older men"];
**********
iggy once offered me a mercy fuck
like a sleeper hit, brass-eyed on bourbon
had me cracking up, conspicuous plaster, a wrier paris
[arm around his shoulder, this rejoinder:
"darling, that's too much inbreeding for my liking"];
no need to fuck per se
[really get off on grey matter and snazzy sidewalks
what any sort of request I would fulfill
like a party present, jump out in vapid surprises];
iggy had a bad spat, souring girlfriend in two-wheeler circles
stayed and listened, languid as rufus wainwright:
"look, iggy, this is method, how poets should be treated
they only ever want to be loved, loved beyond lennox
beyond kravitz, loved beyond every mad enraging test
they're cursed with the daemon that demands you walk
pyre, bondage through earth-wind-fire for themó
for love for a poet knows no restraint";
**********
"offer that kind of absolution, lantern from within
óstay with heróbut if you can't, stay away
because poets can't help it, an abject need
as if scuzzy heavens yanked them by belled ankles
fingers claw at oxygen just to get at pith bits
that rich percy-sledge feeling, of speechless love";
[dionne farris, dead of night, if only "for once in my life"];
"however, and listen hard, iggy blue-eyes
if you can sit it out with a poet, out of pretense
or the nocturne genuine, rich taste with suitable body
a poet will love you in toto, sweet and peach schnapps
in these times, that sort of love scarcely gets respect
everyone needs their island-dotting space:
what does that mean [these jammies days-on-end]?
I mean what does that mean?";
people just need to know what they want, snapshot caption
[have the ballyhoo courage to say it];
**********
but thoreau already explained this away, heart-shaped cockles:
"silence is the universal refuge
the sequel to all dull discourses and all foolish acts
a balm to our every chagrin, as welcome after satiety
as after disappointment; that background which the painter
may not daub, be he master or bungler, and which
however awkward a figure we may have made
in the foreground, remains ever our inviolable asylum
where no indignity can assail
no personality can disturb us";
so there went my week, when on good friday, he told me
to watch and pray, on saturday, he told me just what to say
and on palm sunday, he gave power supernal and divine
just to let my little light shine; he tells me that if
there's a dark corner in our land
[twee and renewed popularity]
you've got to let your little banshee light shine.
Sent as a joke to PoetryAmerica
