Treasure Island

Gregory Allen Uhan

(December 24,1987 / Warren, Michigan)

Adored Absentee


During your respite,
I've done my best not to succumb
to the full-body furry of alcohol's savagery.
Still, on occasion, I must admit,
at times when my mind's eye is in need of rest,
I toast with friends and family.

Day and night, I envisage your face, your waist,
your gossamer flesh, pliant and curvaceous form,
and my eyes are forced to retreat at the twinge of
silver tipped rose-thorns.

In gatherings of company, I tend to
block out the utterances of others, too
busy searching my mental recordings,
trying to recreate and replay your voice of
fallen rainwater and rose quartz
and my ears are eventually
driven toward madness by the mournful
chime of crying cicadas.

Other times,
My mind departs like a crazed, carnal raptor,
desperate wings, blind eyes,
following the flowing scent of rose petal attar,
in search of your tender intellectual meat,
poetic eye balls and well read stomach

I drink in your absence
yet, sadly, I have found
vodka has lost its charm,
whiskey no longer possesses
the allure of romance,
beer leaves a bitter, insatiable
bore, soused in brine, drowning
in the bottom of my stomach.

Oh this malignant affection,
tumors of cotton and lead in
the bowels of my being.
Curculios devouring the plum
of my heart. I feel light as air,
heavy as ore, soaring and plummeting, at once,
Amorous pangs coil me during these times,
Oh these serpentine feelings, they slither
down my intestinal track, nesting and
gnawing in the depths of my core.
They spawn with time and multiply
their festering brood. They feed of
feverish blood and submerged boughs
of stone-fruit. A pit of molten lead is
left in their ordure.

Ah adored absentee,
theses unresolved ardors
fill the summer's night air
with cindered birch perfumes,
they echo laughter and reflect
smiling faces, relating stories,
burning day and night,
a perpetual bonfire flaring
with the endless intensity
of a thousand Latin summers.

How long, I ask, oh adored and absent being,
shall I be burdened with the extra weight of
this emotive encumbrance?
For what distances shall I be forced to mule this
basket, overflown with ashes and grapes?

I only wish for you to find your peace
in slumber's nightly procession.
Upon whose lucky pillow does your head now rest
at this hour, which has descended so heavily and
suffocatingly upon me?

This the hour of my soul's departure: wandering the
mind's manifold chambered depths, in order to set loose
these fugitive harbored memories of you.

There, where the shore's string colored sands give way to the
extending amber shadows of the wilderness, I saw the unfurled
locks of your windblown hair.

On that solitary spot, where the Luna's beam of yellow light
penetrates the sylvan canopy of evergreens to place a kiss upon
the hard-bitten wounds of the earth, in that brief golden reflection,
I caught a glimpse of your cynosure smile.

Oh, much adored absentee, for what measure of time
shall I be forced to fan these flames of enigmatic passion?

Tell me, now rather than later, would it be any wiser for me
to snuff them out before they engulf my pen and lay ruins
to my house built of precious paper?

Submitted: Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Edited: Tuesday, May 08, 2012

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Summer 2011

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