the ghost scar,
those demon flames, like losing is personal. assassinated. absent. an invisible
person thrashed to death. I ask one favor, from a black soul, women never die
without feeling perfect. a teary-eyed smile, a chuckle choking chaos, a freedom
ride from mirrors. I made emotion, on a store run, bought vodka like 15 in
spaces—those blue bars, the ferric crime, those metallic handshakes. too much
unforgiveness, it seems something is twisted, men pride self on lacking emotion—on
being cold, on deeper control, one isn’t ecstatic in—those wilderness stars,
our interpretation, like 6 grand on one roll. threshed the pedal, paddled the
bottom, giggling like a maniac. true to ideals, racing ghetto treasures,
petting simmering angers. Love is bad. I asked permission. like living is
forbidden.
the scar, the dice
game, the aches in something feeling inanimate. Looney Toons art, like 26,000,
a quick 10 grand. spacing like madness, roaming forests, right here in our
cities. I drag an Oldsmobile. I laugh like demented. spinning in circles—right down
the Shaw, laughing again, to pause, listen, getting ghosted.
