My cyclothymic hands lost in vetiver, verse vetted
whateviter, ambivalence ached via catheter,
naw, I don’t care about the inconsistency,
though it’s seasonal salmon trying to spawn me,
a protein collapse, a headheart deficiency,
the question of now, the question of then,
the question of soon, the zen jack-off of when.
I am sorry my poison it bled me of you,
my compliments were no weakness,
some tailspin misconstrue. You’ve got a TV show,
I know it, you’ve got a big smile, you showed me.
You’ve got the ancient spice to seduce their wives,
you’ve buried actuality under minarets, you bet.
I bet with cyclothymic hands lost in vetiver,
I find all of myself lost in vetiver, I’m swimming deep gone
black in that vetiver, entombed murky blessing of measurers.
You’ll be lost with your hands dipped in vetiver,
an arm or a chance or a negator.
An army of you over vetiver, poles augured in mud
of this tetherer, what scent, what since, what was ever,
o, tell me you hear words written by shears dripping
deep in the silence of vetiver slunk steep in the crease of the
Janis-eyed sheets you won’t see, the window unopened,
mirrors deflected, the diversity of worlds unmet, unmetered yet,
speciated as fires lit in heather mounds on conversationally split hills—
For this a coin flipped, teared-up down the endless well of monsoon rose smells that hang missionary bells to foretell the absolute end,
what sepia sends, a kiss clamped too deep on an envelope sent and
sealed with the cuff hiss mercy of a woman’s last drop of nothing she
held to be wetter than vetiver.