You seem elitist, I assume, like a damn fool. You were
relentless, bathed in skylines, remorse in both souls. I get bent, I laugh like
it never hurt, I play pretend, it was good when it was normal.
Whatever it is, like kids at a zoo, nobody knows my
system, many words, so absurd, to change Sisyphus; clawing my chest, crunched
on a floor, no one close enough to fathom.
I saw you like a vampire, suckling soul, amazed it
aches in goodness; I was laughing, you peeped pain, to ask, “Are you okay?”
Like a blind star, a heaving pavement, like sunshine!
It feels good, like sorrow was milk, like sugar was
misery. I know Jesus, a crazed claim, if God would deign unto a serf. Breakfast
would be liquor, days were weeds, reminiscing in a phantom.
To believe a Negro easy, to denounce all in a pain, to
forfeit giggles, to look like crazed, to seclude into a vacuum; to know it took
years, indeed to die, to learn to give existence.
I never lost as I did—granny was an ace, I never felt
it that way. I returned after silence, I was sick in silence, hurting rarely
tells on itself. Like a rocket, sudden into a trance, to rethink my life.
Maybe it would, like a phantasm, like talkative
mannequins—paying it little attention, it seems so far-fetched, like souls have
existence—like Love was sick, like hurting takes a hiatus.
Extended in my mind, absent in my spirit, nay, all at
its forefronts; a frontier homey, a take half homey, to the brain homey—a ninety
on freeways just to get there—a true to dirt, beyond remedy
homey.
