Filled
with memories, tearing up, I can see the lake—the film on repeat—the monster in
the angel. Adrift upon an apricot, some old ass person, so young those procedures;
to see us dying, the coloring book, so ethnic as we enter. It’s been winter,
amid the summer, sweating ice—the cold fever, the old memories, it was never a
celebration. Just needed to win. So long waiting. So wild at ink—the freeway
battle, the warrior’s silence, so esoteric, so much pressure, the last to hit
the desert; falling to knees, deep in the hills, trying one potent vision. I guess
it’s true, if a billion on the soul, I’d celebrate luxuries too—the fret of the
map, the boundaries in the cities, the first bottle manufactured. To purchase
artifacts, to become a found object, did it all for Invisibility—to get close,
to learn from essence, at times so congested, seated, trying stillness. Tossed
into Uranus, courting the deepest scar, at memories so foreign to this body.
