Friday, December 23, 2011

Confusion, or Why I Am Sick of "I Don't Know"

So who shall I speak to then?
This room, with a galaxy or more of
folded emptiness, lines of air bent back
on themselves lined and stacked and
grouped together, an infinity of
lonely particles that dance a
Shall I speak to the walls I see,
who limit my vision with their
stark frigidity, their goosebump
flesh a reminder that I have
nothing to hang, who speak
nothing but echos back and
back and back?
Shall I speak to my feet, as I
reclined in some fucking torpor, some
listless paralyzing overstimulation of
thought which has shred every muscle
in me
shall I speak to my feet and ask them
why they move me no longer?
Shall I speak to thee?
A joke
Shall I speak to three eighteen a.m
as if she were some full lipped teen,
a minute pregnant with physical
possibility, supple, anticipating,
salivating, ready
Who shall I speak to
Who will receive my fist
The fist between my legs
The fist that sleeps encased
within these ribs
The fist caged in these teeth
The fist within my fist
The fist in my finger
The fist that flows
on my blood
The fist that clouds in
cold air when I ex-
hale and
when I curse you
and your name
the female human
pussy and
myself and when I
curse Him, his
holiness who is some
father or
some cloud of pictures that
MY father has planted
like seeds
to fuck
me and me and me and
my understanding of a
vision of this true place

I've never seen his face for
true but I've dreamed it and
hated it for most of this dreaming
time and
what can I say or
who can I speak to?

Who can I speak to?

Not you

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