over a decade in
an urn, bone into ash, I sit, palming me. Jamesia enters, in new Huaraches, and
Donna Karan jeans. We laugh for no reason, emotions high, Armani feelings.
flying those years, incipient mental health issues, infatuated with lines. She
asks, “What are you experiencing?” “I’m just low; and you?” “I feel like liquid,
sinking into petroleum. I feel unfound.” I remember at times, leaving heaven,
angels on fire. Jamesia is a wild shiver, a good rumor, a repenting nun. I die
inside a memory. never is never too soon. what has Prada donated to the youth—in
my area, bassline into my spine. I fathom anger, most put into a chisel,
powdering up like deodorant. the slaughter house of ethnicity—the battle of
interior gods—so much a complex. Jamesia is Israel, listening to Lauryn Hill,
meditated in a drug induced trance, tiptoeing silence, reaching for Lucifer’s
beard. so much hickory, so many switches, I’ve been bleeding essence—the beast
gnawing, the pine box calling, Jamesia undresses; “I look gorgeous, Aren’t you
proud of me?” “Yes. Indeed!” I go into her, she claws, arches, turns over. I can’t
ignore it—most on anti-psychotics are more passionate—something roving lands, a
gila ancestor, slithering passively, confusing as Pollock. many colors, merging
rivers, agitated personalities—shy aggressor, little engine made raw, violent
lover, chains made into feathers. no one passes by intelligence. most dislike
artificiality. most are intimidated by strangers. oh Jamesia, we’ve been
structuring a quicker death, a flippant injustice, how have we unknitted sulfur?
—so abstract, roaming valleys, the death of the grinning!
