The CuisinArt

From Adam

–

Pitiable destination, never to be reached
A weak stream drying
Droughts of love and verve, parched for a crest that would replenish strong rivers,
Flowing lush beneath a permeable blue
No solace, but the desert
Dried tears, salt and not much more

Weak streams creep
Creep toward a sea of dust
Stream to dust, dust to dust
Nothing here in the delta
Desolate, easily traipsed

I’ve come far in search of rivers, to the horizon’s end
Prayed they be wide and rolling; spare me weak streams

Abandon it, abandon the attempt
Before the arrival at the weak stream’s delta

Nay, I’ve pressed on in misery

An oppressive trail
Full of old dogmas and forbidden gratifications

The straight and narrow, like an arrow to the horizon
Black as bold typeface in a blurry, smeary green-gray jungle
Flagellated in contrition, I mush forth with eyes on the line
Limping gait favoring to the left, to the right
Footfalls lead, follow
My uncomfortable, uncontrollable arousal into brambles
In search of always sweeter fruit

Though I walk the line
I veer subconsciously,
In search of sweeter fruit, delectable indulgences
And sap on the trees
Scarred, mute, remorseful,
I trek haphazardly from the darkness,
Back to black as boldface

Guiding stars lay hidden
Cotton web clouds stick to my thoughts, my memories
Clouding my reason, chastity
Diffusing the black bold straight-and-narrow

Yet somewhere an alabaster moon, partially concealed
Hovers like peering over shoulder,
Threatening to expose the fraud, painstakingly spun
A looming apprehension and
A persistent, recurring erection at the wrong time

Amidst the uncertainty, the doubt, the lack of
A light to follow through the night,
There remains a steadfast guilt
Guilt of the circular penitent, succumb to his egression’s transgressions

A beacon, pulsing, warm, stands like a monolith deep in the smeary jungle
And I veer into brambles
I bow to my own obelisk in the wrong place, always at the wrong time
Huddled in the shadow of its respite, I am lost to the horizon and old typeface
I am tempted by something that stings to spite such things
Overcome by fructose and bramble berries
Red as sin in the smeary gray-green

Sullen, bedraggled, utterly sober, wading once more back from brambles
Again, still again, I follow footfalls
Those deep, weary drums that sound the dirge

I fail to grasp: no sweeter fruit but straight lines black and bold
Sullen, steeped in the languor of misdeeds and paths too often taken,
I tread the line
To the delta
Slightly off kilter, dead and closer to dead.