I was rethinking
my position, as an African mulatto, or some silent creature in America—made vocal
in prose, or spirit, or gesticulations—as present, more absent, catching a nervous
giggle. aligned in dark opal, clouded inside, hassling with boomerangs;
carrying trucks, weighed low, dismissed by my ego.
deeper
concentration, certain conscious snaps, at penalties inside.
public faux pas,
shadow demons, at a city creek rereading a neat engagement. seeing an exit sign
might arouse attraction where two are unbridled negation; in each utterance, in
each woman, a man is simultaneous opposites. one might say, “It isn’t so
serious, we each need fun.” yes! until fun has run dry so often, most need a
guarantee.
most comments are
rhetorical, musings inside, so far left, doing right is miracles and oranges.
I tire of saying
one is beautiful. it seems shallow. I’d rather say—against commonsense, I needed
our identity.
looking at
dolphins, seeing interior motion, sudden upon a warm heart. but Love has a
chase, painted in her gut, tiptoeing geometric genetics.
next to a tan
chest, sits a ten-year old letter, as I mature, I rewrite it. it can’t detail,
nor convey, some piece inside dangling from itself. it can’t right its
perception. it’s a weary clock, upon an indelicate urge, wailing beneath
asphalt.
