the
stigmatism, assigned to men, associated with women, called surrendering
monsters—faces passing in droves, some applied to memory, most just ruining any
peace in souls; the human ghosts, social phantoms, or such a metaphysical
crush. I was wrong, she never died, never wanted to, much rage in a peaceful
person; making love, instead of lusts, making serenity, instead of cautionaries;
the fantastic personality, so at war with confidence, so incautious with other
poets—but she writes, it’s great, so simple, to scream, I need what you can’t
deliver—it must be there, it cries into wilderness, a man seated at a pot,
looking at nakedness, her body makes him superficial—it ruins it for other
women. holding garlic, old garlic, going through the garden—sweet new garlic,
so fresh, such odor wafting—to cleanse skies, to die with intelligence, each
man to the woman that kills his innocence. a soul eats gourmet, it spoils his
stomach, it was so decadent, so rich, it split indifference, it made passion,
it spun his brains, it ruined his appetites. needing gourmet, aesthetic
gorgeous, too many lies to head home; rawness, volcanic, a soul is blessed in
her resistance—the cage I come from, the trust I never built, the routine, nonchalant,
expectant ways of romance; so great the stigmatism, so threaded the disease,
the fury of the psychiatrist, those feelers, what we tend to need, so conceited
about our desires. who in hell asks for her? I passed an inner Glock on an
abandoned block, I pledged to one unlocked—so many presumptions, needing to possess—just
anything I touch—a ruined man, a sophisticated spirit, so instrumental in
private deaths. I feel imbalanced, I crave her aura, I don’t like her person,
it can’t be so much to it. a damn fool, must I curse, must I scream, must I rebuke
anything in existence?
