The mirage is bleeding. The world
is spinning. Truisms are suffering.
The star fleet, the fleece weather,
so close it concerns me.
The fever of the manic—the
lethalness of the silence—running back to old mines.
The inner marks, the water
abrasions, we call them baptisms.
Slanging my soul, the chips at the
table, the dice one breath.
So sick for us. So distant from us.
You shall be remembered.
I cut right, looking at a turnpike,
asking more interior questions.
I need to know self.
I need to hear others.
One woman is a serious blessing.
At the anger bank, for no damn
reason, just overanalyzing.
Coffee cakes. Cocoa. And Nutmeg.
So enlove that morning; like crazy
for you; I was so young for us:
those newer feelings, those
frolicking feelings, every thought in me pushed in you;
in my winds, the valleys laughing,
the mongoose pointing at the cobra;
so dangerous, didn’t know it, so
enlove, and couldn’t grow it.
We chanced life, parents watching,
never convulsed in a woman:
the light so bright, the skin so
supple, the body so perfected:
chiseled politely, made for
darkness, the teenage death!
