perhaps better alone,
akin to a religion
and a personal grip of God,
a faith in my own limitations
and in the unending torrent
of that love
bashing me against winter's bricks
in a search for an amber spring.
No haste, no haste;
to rush the inevitable
is to laugh at this religion,
shake off the cloak of this face,
throw it upon the sidewalk
and march alone, totally alone,
so heavy, so unlearned,
"Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud nor long."*
Wild as I am, wild as they come, I stretch and my back cracks like a cat. My eyes land on each breaking stick, maybe something to eat, to pounce upon, to bat against the wall until I lose interest.
There are secrets in every step, in every crevice of our alleys and stoops, and these lazy-lidded warriors know them all. No spark unworthy of investigation, no piece of shining meat unworthy of a roll on my tongue or a schism within my broken mouth. See how the world tastes, always new, see how it smells, always new. I am unbored, so unbored. My naps are lies, my dreams are lies. I feel coiled like a mean spring, wound and wounded by an unending and desperately mild winter.
"He pulls up his trousers, and buckles the belt. 'Why else do you like me?'
She looks at him. 'Shall I tell you?'
''Cause you haven't given up. 'Cause in your stupid way you're still fighting.'"**
Hafta wrap my fingers in masking tape on account of me breaking my hand. It's old hat now, I understand the consequence, know that after a few weeks the stabbing swelling pain accompanying my right hand balled into a pitiful fist will fade. Lesson; none. Last time this happened, perhaps four or so years ago, I set the bone by standing on it, flattening it under the heel of my cowboy boot, finished a quart of Budweiser, called my mother, and decided to see what marijuana was all about.