I haven’t inhaled
yet, I haven’t a neat photo yet, not much would matter. Italian carpet in slums?
a billion-dollar man. better feared than loved. it sounds rough, it feels
right, feared men live like mysteries—dying like silence. no one knows like
mommy—not father—shared with granny. pots boiling, like I own existence, closer
to being dislocated—aside mistakes, it matters little, it matters much. made me
nervous, those dreamworking eyes, long Latina hair. I don’t know much. popping
like zealots. I just saw a truck come in—from Tijuana. the trunk was dripping
flour.
we seem aloof, are
we deep enough—in a strange alien land? is it us, wrestling mid Crenshaw, are
we that raw? cars bouncing, blunt guts on curbs, uncooked Brandy, unreleased
beauty.
sent her away. her
eyes were cheetahs. America made her hungry.
I couldn’t do it—to
ruing excellence—I introduced her to a bulletproof—a wild soul struck by her.
I can’t laugh
notice the tone, partner is on meth: every slice for the dead, every haunting for
trillions, every hill speaks to Solomon.
what are we, are
we killers, like let’s get it correct?
I’m at a pillow,
rereading paragraphs, applying one to memory. I just jotted a word. I saw
another. I won’t use those few.
straight to it,
more pumped than adequate, it becomes a distress for some.
speedy voicebox,
illusions more like real, no one is sympathizing.
gators on the rug.
Frankincense wafting. a little nun-soul screaming.
