stonecipher

you crack me open and
the split receives your
relentless flow;

you jest - your wit is
wicked - and you release
great waves of silly.

if i were to remake you in some other art form what would you be?
what i have now is poetry, that dance of watery concessions to language.
i would draw you, then, with crayons made of blood-wax, blindfolded;
pin it on a surface, drink it daily, and not sign it.
this stone, molded by heat and pressure, time and violence,
has its ancient faces placed by ancient foes,

you decipher them
with action figures
and bicycle wrenches and

you find no correlative
significance in the way you
use your feet and hands poorly.

your innocence is a pouring
over, a soft-droplet shower
of powder-blue questions.

you ask certain things
multiple times in your
quest to stay afloat,

and i answer them as best as i can, but i'm better with a pen.
for example, i have no idea which Avenger i would be if i could,
or which weapon i would prefer in the event of zombies.
your tongue and your lips are transmitters that wash
a signal over me until all i can hear is the sound of you dreaming,
a perfect pitch that buoys me to points above the compass.

you sweep away the surface
dust and get to the
chiseled truth;

your instruments of that
undoing rest in the palms
of your thirst.

you kneel at the site
with magnificent calm and
approach my stone with care.

your blood on the skinned
flesh has dried and it looks
like spilled Kool-Aid.

my brother once swung me from the feet in cyclonic carousel circles
in our old living room until my head struck the corner of a brick on the mantel.
i blacked out and bled and he brayed with laughter. the blood on my shirt was alluvial.
i sculpt with ink, bearing down on the truth in the rock.
i harden my resolve and whet whatever appetite that growls.
in this way, i am dependent on your graciousness and untied sneakers.

i am a stonecipher
you crack me up good