You gave poetry. You wore polyester sheets. You
carried a bowl. It was out there, another region, pointing to beauty, headfirst
glory, then it sings in eloquence. I took a handsaw to invisibility; I murmured
against self; to imagine filth in souls. An attic of stripteases—controversial
languages—to give more than one gives; maudlin woes, chauffeuring pains, some
sad and sullen poet. Palming seaweeds. Lopsided perceptions. Looking into a
backdrop. Too few seams—to feel emphatic, with drums leading into Africa. Save
her umbilical cord—make it holy—for life is going to do a number. To savor the
good, in one inside, with the secret being—One inside; books on war, frantic
the curse, with life seeming like war; (a child would ask questions, if to
protect a tender heart, the adult child asks the same questions—we give him his
answers). Like marksmen, racing to an icebox, begging for what ice can’t give;
so high-powered, identity is a chase, so fragile – as we palm words for
consideration.
