born meek,
arrogant, they trained me. in flannel shirts, patched khakis, old dress
shoes—hand-me-downs, looking like a mistake, father in waves—getting ghosted,
larger magazines, many screaming at victims—maybe a survivor, maybe a liar,
maybe evil, God!
sipping Redd’s,
throttling problems, it’s like angst to love—full time cupcakes, taking what
comes, did years at zero balance.
fingertips waxed,
buffed, bled of flesh—running, weighing the pickle, did mine, got aches, I saw
it was in ruins—the cycle, the cage, eating humility, free, on trial.
the ashes fell,
upon white carpet, the greyhound laughing—seeing beats, drums, hit harder to
survive.
Love is sickness,
so healed, so low, like depressed and smiling; hailstones, aches, old miseries,
a loyal problem, a mistake, at something never been blessed, this fashion. sure
paradox, wanting it all, as most in this city jungle: promising music, dear to
death—before release to another; ingredients cursing me, lacing her, it was
used against the family.
ate a cactus, bled
a desert, running aside tumbleweed.
Love is sexy, her
brains are pains, wrung, distressed, mental like a machine—sacred as Ka’bah,
Mosaic holy, fretting the fifth of its beasts.
so fervent, so
moist, working feelings—passed-out, leasing peace, achieving so rapidly, the
Fed are involved.
