Congress


We should both be asleep, but there are times
when sleep ain’t befitting.
It’s not the thing we need.
We crave congress
of spirit,
pagan revue
of throttled mind, synthesis
of sounds better left unspoken.

It’s been so long since I’ve written anything direct
it’s like my fingers are numb
sausages tracing
through ice. I can’t break through
to what I want to form your mind around, even as
it hangs there,
hovering, like a shadow of someone about to be seen from behind
a curtain.
Drunkards yell
in the street outside, gypsy cabs
sounding as they pass. Then it is quiet, relatively,
meaning the absence of yelling,
the hum of an alleyway
fan.

I lose something
of myself each day, biting
back my wonder. I turn
into something categorically
confined.
It’s too easy to let life slip
into something
conventional.

Let others speak up
to die in shame in front of everybody.
Let’s wait and see
how life pans
out.

Congress.

How can a word mean something simultaneously
dry-as-cowshit and wet-as-coitus?
Bovine
legislators slouching through ursine assemblies,
or
people fucking, copulating sweaty,
slapping grunting spitting?

But such is how laws get made, perhaps,
in the real world.
In the dusty heat with
the iron smell of blood everywhere, territory
negotiated by want.
You can smell the residue of this power
on the marble colonnades as you cross
the street of the capitol.
Sop up
the slick bitter innards of the appointed
with your hobo bread
then blame them for the acid bile residue
left trickling up your tight
throat.

We are too tense
to be human, we
have no time for our own
thoughts.

There’s no escaping our hunger.
Each moment we compromise,
our ancestors screaming.

On this naked white plain,
where our eyes once did meet,
god bless your sordid soul
as I lay me down to sleep.

Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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