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Darren Lauzon


Ottawa, ON, CA

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Passing the Bowel Line


Darren Lauzon

Once I arrogantly believed that lying here like this
on hot sand with the oily and darkened heliocentric
required a sleight of consciousness equal to lobotomy,
needed the 'heil' salute to heat and sex and potential
for sex, needed the rhetoric of fumbling surf.

Now I am burning and meditating on Burroughs
and the potential for melanoma and what burrows
beneath my coccyx in the sand, what god it supposes
me to be and I notice your breathing is now joined
to the rhythm of my own.

First I'm aware that you sleep; then I'm aware that
you dream, that your unconscious has taken its turn
at free speech, and I can tell that the video presentation
is pretty slick, yet some part of you heckles from the floor;
sweetheart you mumble so sweetly in your sleep.

Love? Is this what your soul's assessment of me
no longer feeds? Has it packed me hard and tanned
into the queue? I could so easily interrupt this nightmare
by grabbing some part of you, clutching tightly to avoid
passing as waste into the sea.