The grave spat me out, dirty darkness, keels and kilns—the
furnace churning, the spirit roaming, a flame for the souls burning. Baby Girl,
the life I lived, the drain I crawled through: a filthy man, a disrespected specimen,
so filled it seems discouraged—the prompt for dying, the way it calls, the
walls I walked through; so bionic, such a drilling, the curse of being
nameless; some misnomer, made weak, like flying against all odds; the space as
it developed, the core as it opened, those dreams forfeited for hunger. And
when mother found me, I was cruel a man craving, those tears were helium. A bag
of mothballs, a feather made of parsley, a bucket of soiled garlic—the fire we
give, those legs to chancing, never more deliberate than sinning—an occasion
for authorship, a trope for uneasy, the phone was bleeding. The soul aching
screams, holding panic, fleeing, filled with nervousness, the vase as it spoke,
a dynasty as it died, a grievance as it resurrected.
