After Botching the Big End-of-the-Night Kiss You Drive Home Over Mulholland Drive, Listening to Leonard Cohen & Weeping with Relief

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Blessed Idiot. Anointed Know-Nothing. 
	What was it you said? I feel like I’m going 
to kiss you now. & Valentine’s Day. & stars 
	sawing their violas. Even in Los Angeles 
		the hushed beeping of frogs. O, tender
	beeping. The night unreasonably warm, 
like the atmosphere around a pot of tea. I feel 
	like I’m going to kiss you now. Sanctified 
		Moron. Hallelujah Shit-For-Brains. & then 
	the weeping. Leonard singing like a jaguar
chomping a fossil. Had to be people I hated, 
	he sings, had to be no one at all. Ghosts
		licking honey from your heart, a light
	lifting like dust off the city. I feel like I’m going 
to kiss you now. Glory, the screw-up. Numb-
	skull, glory. Unsnarling her cardigan from
		your eyes, one cerulean thread at a time. 
	Lost in the night-hair, winding through its braided 
sheets, & braided into your own body, tighter,
	tighter, until you don’t know the difference
		between your body & the curses you’ve
	braided into it. I feel like I’m going to kiss 
you now. Divine doofus. Sainted schmuck. 
	Consecrated fuckfuckfuck. Failure buzzing  
		around your fat fingers. Failure entombing
	your obsolete sex. Failure like a shaggy
angel chewing your longing apart. O child
	of failure. Child of gracelessness. Child
		choking on the altar’s absence. You said 
	There’s no way this was going to happen
with any semblance of elegance, & turned
	toward the sidewalk, leaving the hallway,
		leaving her bewildered in front of her door,
	your hearts, a pair of flickering lamps, a-frenzy 
to settle on a condition. I feel like I’m going
	to kiss you now. & she laughed & backed
		away, said Why did you say anything, & how
	could you tell her? That in that moment
a messenger lodged in your throat, sang
	this temple of clumsiness into you. O gift.
		O votive. O benediction. Ordaining you
	this hallowed klutz. Your tongue, a burst
of fevered moths hurtling toward any light,
	biting through the ink-slick strings lashing 
		your limbs to the fingers of loneliness, yes, 
	carrying you up, up, away from the dark
of the bordering day, from your yearning that she
	were some other she, & she, certainly, yearning
		the same, & up, & up, into that sprawled
	& glimmering gloom, tears like lamplight 
gushing from your eyes, a bright old man 
	exalting your ineptitude, the Name lacing
		the space around you, a perfect thanks 
	blazing from your lips.
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About Jeremy Radin

Jeremy Radin is a poet/actor living in Los Angeles. His first book, "Slow Dance with Sasquatch", is available from Write Bloody Publishing. You may have seen him on "It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia" or "CSI" or "Zoey 101" or in a restaurant aggressively eating pancakes by himself. View all posts by Jeremy Radin

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