Five Thousand Mornings

The bridegroom hopes
in the morning
under stars.

The peacock stirs.
The songbirds yet sing.
The metal to become the ring
still in the ground.
The stars turn around.
Is it be blue or gold
they bring?
Sun-veiled rainy skies
or the eyes and hair
of a Germanic maiden
against the side of his dark skin,
five thousand
mornings forward.

The day turns.
The songbirds have to sing.
And time now his only companion.
The bridegroom becomes a master.
One part man.
One part woman.

At The Axis Of Night

When the desert was outside
I dragged the dildo outside
and pointing to the South wind
I plaintively said your name,
looking at the edges of Tuscon,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
The wet glaze on the
polyvinyl chloride phallus
became lost and muffled,
muddled with dust.
I coughed and my lungs hurt,
a lone bird chirped in the distance
towards the east,
towards the chain hotels,
the sad glow of logos,
the chain restaurants,
the generic corporate way of life
we all know.
Then,
I walked back inside to watch
Channel 8,
still mumbling to myself,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin