you get angry, you
love men, I talk of foreign women. I know passion, you know aggression, if two
were one Sunday morning. I get mad, a little spacey sipping at 11 a.m. I
write like losing sanity, you judge like another’s eyes, with want to tread in
shivers—the furious fires all through hills, he tells of something you
understand. so much need, allergic to literature, prefer being told a lie: “Eyes
killing me, hips begging, as never another soul.” I peruse auras, he grabs and
dies, I seize with words—like crazed when physical, like a dungeon in sorrow,
like a fool with problems. more physical. more animal. more aggression. I laugh.
I get raw. I sit in starry spaces. I talk poetry. I ask about Ezra. you look
with a blank forgiveness. I speak an existential. you need street talk. I become
street—looking in my rearview, I see a Palestinian. I ache to feel mysticism,
you ache to feel romance, softer into his music. fretting ghosts, getting lost,
I “boo” in my dreams. you rub my chest, asking questions, I awaken in warm
sweat. I get mad, in knowing
facts, in knowing how it works; a few touches a few penalties like mercy
begging excitement. a Monday morning, like 4 a.m., meds doing a number. I see
sexy I see art I wonder why it’s such a hassle. I slam a beer. I eat guarana. I
put on a pot of coffee. I smoke like, really! I hit a computer, filled with balance,
so beautiful how a light flow. indeed, Mechtilde, like Exercises, Gertrude,
like Jerusalem, Huldah. I get mad more into a gnat, looking at some vision,
seeing hands touch flesh. like gunning like rumors like a friend in you.
