my hands are museums
leaving fossils of scars
in the clay of your thighs
Standing naked, pink and scrubbed, swaying staring at my wrinkled shirts. Not sure which breeze to follow, too many tonight and me so tired, so I pull on a pair of pants, think about Krsna, and climb back into bed.
Kangaroo newborns, little boiled peanuts climbing rippling mountains of fur to settle little fetus in folds of their mother's skin.
I keep a loaded pen and a notebook the color of blood near my head while I sleep. Jung kept a revolver at hand to end nightmares lest Hell be Confusion, lest Hell be Uncertainty, testament to the fortitude of death.
I should like to awake and find I'm a tree.
Pissing staring at myself in the mirror, grinding my jaws, watching screws drip through melting walls...
lined paper a substitute for a come rag, a spray of ink followed by labored breathing and a slow, slow cigarette, though ink dries without losing its innate vitality. Will you swallow my words?
No comments:
Post a Comment