one more time, into
a ghetto, all I needed with wants, pains, anxieties, courage, exploitation—to have
as wished, certain shifts, so vigilant—passing by.
read our
storyboard, pluck our apples, remember how you won.
a monocle on a
pendulum, it was never good; so hypnotized, self-induced trance, edging, on
cliffs, zipping into a shadow … no one fathoms.
chains clanking in
a casket.
an iron tunic
texture.
fated, gated, many
hated.
aside a cafeteria,
next to a shed, souls smoke tobacco. looking spent, aching in fever, most will
die there. someone thicker. someone
smaller. someone Asian, Latin, African.
one sees according to dialers, one hears the last ringing, one feels
according to his needs.
maybe Mesopotamian,
Phoenician, Lebanon. maybe unreal, a fable, maybe anything to outdoing his
status. maybe it matters more to an author—while she constructs, making him, so
wild how we neglect ourselves.
picturesque muse,
so pictorial, living anxiously, filled with anguish, so beautiful, gripping,
then releasing. much a holy sinner,
much an art, reciting a monologue.
