Me and Baudelaire

The object ugliness of sheared off mountain
shale and dust
flags flop flopping over lake
a shadowy blue
and there are clouds this morning
the silver chair of our desire
I am squaw peak'd
dog piss sense of reality
semi insane social misfits and the vision of that
ebb and flow of shadows across rocks

if only I were here with Baudelaire
him sucking my toes
he could teach me the beauty of barrenness
pines fallen and bleached by pain
snapped off limbs, open carcasses
snow left dirty, smogged like us
our cynic-ness a quality known only to ourselves

and although we feel like gods
we are not at peace here
businessmen carving new slopes with bulldozers
whirring and crashing
this is not our Olympia
me and Baudelaire
perched on a liquid sulphur rock
touching thighs
he is contemplating new muses
since his previous turned to woman

we understand ourselves, each other
cinematographers of poetry
we don't understand shiny Americans
who pick wildflowers in bunches
grasped in oil and economic hands
Hi 8 video cam
a scratched reality of history

the light is altitudenal here
Baudelaire, his slightly green hue
rifling for prozac in my bag
dusty glacial earth, the ginko-birchness
we are bored, perverse and desperate for attention
normality of our thin lives
middle class without the margins

Baudelaire shifts starchily towards me
smell of absinthe precedes his kiss
and where it hit misogyny blossoms
the (dis) illusion breaks
it is me; sun soaked pink granite; pines
in a pocket of America.