color tones, a
whit yellow, a whit broken—should live ambivalence, I feel different, should be
proud to be me, as opposed to anti-me.
grabbed the wheel,
skirted passed Figueroa, slid into chaos—the motive bleeding, I need more, Love
is action; birds humming, chumming falsely, at a woman bigger than Jaws.
asking, it sounds
redundant, it sounds soft, never been into more than God’s children.
rest in peace, too
many, skipped Christmas like ten years. petit nickels, petit crimes, feeling
larger than my existence.
was told about a
thrust, assigned to survival, more realness, they have issues with us.
at a bee-eater, at
an anthill, I no longer feel like a sluggard. heard when he died, a good
person, misidentified—swooping, swooshing, it was in his attitude, it was in
his body—it became his sacrifice!
keep it clear.
opened a page,
gazing at starlings, listening to mother’s wisdom. misunderstood. I keep mixed
analogies. at a crypt, at captives, back to my carpet.
masked weavers,
dirty beavers, a penitentiary of grievers; at Love with distance, she returned
the usage, only pain understood.
