bless the masquerade, above an airborne
rasp, eating sugarcane.
there’s an old festoon, it just sits,
filled with dust mites; I pass by it, I look, the earth moves. it’s a quake. I grip
a hallway wall. it passes.
time is studded with little miracles. they
never thought I’d grow wings. they tested me, I didn’t pass, that was inquiry’s
end.
the 80s were different. no child left
behind was a joke. one must come ‘ready-made’.
throes into skies, cherries plucked at
season, dahlias adorning her table.
bless the children!
I couldn’t outwit anyone, nor outfox the
darkness, years rolled into its creation; I took time to see, I rebutted the
formula, the more I tried, the more it glued within.
those gothic staircases, an opus of souls,
winds wailing, dusky undertones; deserts as market stores, liquor banks so
nearby, an Asian noodle shop.
it comes to me, in this unlit realm, made
privy for many wrong reasons: they keep it busy; I wash dishes; I hear those
mistakes.
this one will keep a storm, most angered
over what unraveled, riding a foreign pendulum.
