America The Pathology

by a light-pole aside a hydrant I sit: eyes wider, pain deeper, something reality creepers. sandstone knees, scrapes on brains, a woman I never knew—the motion of our sun or a grin from our moon at a doctor so silently; a bag of bagels, a flying beetle, or a small lady bug. to have deception to have scars such years where nothing changed. the winerock the nightclub to awaken asking peculiar questions.     I saw a pendant I saw a woman I wondered of her kindness; such aesthetics such a face or a body those years under perfection; such underbrush such dogwood where it was a late night with ant-fires—those thought pieces as trying to evade but self is a mirror never seeing itself. the birthstone of agonies or garments shading character where we don’t see the maniac: such sweet sociopaths such charming psychopaths while one has a hunch about us: by scruples we judge by ethics we side, but deeper reality, it’s a main issue when we suffer!     I wrote for years, among a great contender, while Love read, so many connections, but never an inclination; color means existence, it screams at the banks, where we describe how to divide slaves. but Love is found or Love is steady where it took renewing allegiance—the piccolo gates those flute fences or hickory slats upon back, bone, & flesh; such a small matter, we took it in stride, where most side with King Jr. so kinetic or wonderful so white, indeed, a slant or a feeling where memories beg forgiveness; or no one to listen while something is tenacious where never a need for regrets. by fatigue by greed such geese at our nearby pond; to dance like dying to churn flesh while Love has never been pride.