Poem 03.14.09 #1

The eroticism of language, with its mouth filled, tongue touching the
back of teeth, is full of potential.
When Jacques was on a date with his lover, did he feel like ripping
his heart out?
The names one gives credence to are the names that are permanent.
On the inner right arm, in a place where I couldn't write your name,
I have your name.
The tattoos that I chose for myself were the first name of philosophers:
Barthes, Derrida, Foucault, Marx or Benjamin, and the sort.
I had the black ink readied, the needle clean and on my skin.
The words would pour out, little silver mercurial drops, biting the
inside cheek, metallic and cold.
The numb fingertips, tracing the shapes of letters spelling your real
name.
Your given name.
The one you gave yourself.
If I could speak your name, I would.