blurred star paths until the entire night was
just a field of two five five
Whose mother had a mother,
whose bones rot now,
whose eyes fill but never re-
lease their weight
Whose story is a
bible
Whose bible is a black
heart
Who lived for a question hope-
lessly unanswerable called
art
Whose filthy skin is a guilty
landscape, whose sex is a sin
and another sin
Whose fingers work the devil's
deeds whose needs are needs and
needing, a hunger until teeth
break or fall or until a
tender female
shudders her teenage
fragility and some moment of
trance is shattered and sick
reality resumes like a
car crash until
a black glass of coffee is
thrown
You're lying awake in bed or
sitting quietly in your
doctor's office or at a red light or
in bed or you're somewhere deep
in your chest or
you're falling thousands of feet
per second in some
un
conscious horror or
you
are in some line
at some carnival in
some summertime
in
the south and
some pathetic
cliche is breathing too loud and
you're rocking and
wrenching your hands and
you're sweating
you're
sweating so
heavily
and
you have
no
idea
where you are or
how you
came
to
be there.
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