Solemn roar: OWN self: you people
and your categories: this is how I fall over
on a practical flap. Having to always eat
the Lenten gun.
My darling, you, reader, hold this
squeamish tentacle. I need you
here in the anteroom of my
rogue blushes. (That’s an old
bohemian trick: the creamy force
Please, please! Who are you,
swanky others under cool black
thunderclouds? The mule gait,
the quirky haircuts, the swear
words, the personal devices.
And if I abandon myself
to frangible sound?
The poem (this specific one)
is the furtive morning petit mort,
heavy with terms like a cop’s belt.
We melt into our styles. Green
sneakers. Hug. And kiss. Hug.
Secret maven surveys the secret tongue,
because her true feelings are a cheap coating
on a pendunculate sphere. Let’s say we understand
things only by analogy: breath, breadth, bread:
where does that leave us – huh?– in the ocean
of original things?