awaken,
Phantom—bleeding ghosts, swooping, swashing, swooshing. the father of the
daughter, big soul, living like dying—a dear secret, grogged, laughing, hanging
with people. a vat of prose, a keg of poetry, a yonic woman too much to reach.
got clowned, a polite insensitivity, meaning, she felt it wouldn’t work—too neat,
not enough hair, not raw roughness. I come from legacies, I’ve spoken with
warriors, players, people collecting salt. it feels different, to know too
much, wondering, How often we excuse ignorance! I need a drink, eliminated early,
I came back—like an infant, I chose Edith, I woke up quickly.
one
burden, one problem, both would multiply. if people knew, by a gravid anchor,
how I specialize at autonomy for women. gazing into a minx, realizing, it isn’t
marriage for most, it’s economical, its love, but business, I just need to
know, Those are my kids. one-to-one, a tamed monster, this becomes affection,
if to break, she’s there, provoking laughter, making excuses, cleaving to a
mystery.
I
became unsettled, too phrenic, too many intellectual wefts. Edith was giggling,
big bright beautiful teethe, pictures sprawled on the table, conversation
facing editing—used, threshed, abused, fraught by kef; aiming at galaxies,
cramming for an exam, loopy, spaced, rereading notes—hearing softer emotion,
spacial in a scream, intimate with her phantom.
