Night of the Insane Caretaker

no things to observe us
to denote us as ours, caretaker
our signs once blurred by evening’s mock songstress
aren’t hands & eyes & hearts enough the whiskey
was the fix that stirred & stirred us up
a froth of ourself incongruent as axe handle to owl
our life’s vile fictions melded to edges’ rank factions
rank factions marched up our staircase
& down the darkened hallway of our heart
our accuser’s knife blade poised at our throat
swigs of Jim Beam momentarily coherent
saying, “make each thing seem weepy in us”
all lies followed act ii
of something you convinced me would goddamn be
demented by insufficiencies
& you & I paired off eternally in reality, caretaker
come morning our dreams will seem more lucid to us
than creation’s spectacular dawns
come morning sunrise will appear pale & redundant
a lover we manage to arouse & abandon
fading supra-logically to syllogistic infractions
anima mundi
we have composed this, caretaker,
in signs we abandoned along highway nine
our screams in the stairwell uncoil like bowels
slithering through knife wounds only we survived
we laid ourselves down like footprints going nowhere
& yet we know it was words that led us
the glare they vanished into rose above the vast horizon
continuous as blindness
sating disarmament’s talkative bedchamber heart
we existed, caretaker, in gear-latches of framework
beyond hopeless corporeality
time itself stuttered
& still we knew the digits said nothing
but the clock to us
nothing but the clock & words whirling
a night-world