out
of a shoebox, like a jinni, she appeared—I want lost tithings, the afterimage,
blue eyes, brown meaning, so damn sentimental; a wild heart, a demon’s skin,
while angels try to balance out the cedarchest. I can’t go too far, I must go
further, an art in a jinn, in sin, most blasted off of beliefs; so explosive,
just making love, so devoid of longevity, so cured, rolling, hitting traffic at
90 mph. the 500 Benz, the luxury womb, so different the way she clamps
existence. the stasis is the ghetto. the trigger is freebase. the quest is
sobriety. and the shift is, it will never part, it will never rescue, it will
be as it was—the curse, the force, so tender—to see a grandpa fall, face into
pavement … to get up, gravel in face, pebbles filled with blood, mumbling his
name, falling repeatedly. economic pain, sludge for tears, so normal, sparking
a cigarette. so intense, so lost, keeping some vision of control. the minute meanings,
the overt messages, with deep trauma causing PTSD. I hear it clearly, “Trust
your voice.” I doubt it clearly, Trust nothing unless authenticated. an interior
gloss, those glassy eyes, running into a trap: big beautiful hips, walking
through droves, to reach her, like three, made intimate. I would disappear,
stabbing in an Old School, bass thumping harder than woodpeckers.
