You should be music, sicker sacrifice, mending
wounds—hanging on to a dial tone, pleading on an answering machine, writing a
lasting epitaph; stressed over gumbo, sounding southern winds, with weasels
crawling under truths. My last memory, caught as going to rest, asunder in
parts pleading each cavity. Those were tears, acidic lies, the cost of becoming
the hero; and grandpa was a riffle, a handgun, talking big smack—those at my
core, advertising war, to assert we desire more—so lost, so located, the music
is wheezing. Grandma was bisexual, and grandpa knew, to imagine that life; a
ghost at the memory, a half body, while it floated out an old mirror. And Love
is superior, a maniac, missing a few points; alive his indictment, at torn
excellence, with a million on one beat. The warrant is the silence, capturing
God, pleading Jesus’ Wisdom.
