desperation
is exhale warfare
one,
if by land, two if by nervous breakdown at night, three if the kitchen is to
stay open and four waiters in masks if laughter is what still passes the membrane
between spirit and skin on the way out, after having paid the bill
we
are all
looking
for keys
in
the algebra
of
the stars at night
jack
of spade masters
naive
to the need of bones
constellations
weave
into
ornamental iron
leaving
milky entrails
beneath
the waning Moon
puppet
mastering this cigarette
with me counting
sheep
and soft chains outside
the old clapboard look
of
the vinyl sided houses
with
their wooden decks
moaning
in sharp breaks
against
the deep sockets
of
Winter grinding
against
the land
where
our eyes
used
to be
we
once we’re
without
strings and
curtains
certain of outcome
emotionally
tied to the wind
lashing
ourselves
to
each ritual tight
tethered
light
our
little hopes
one
by one
bleeding
themselves
of
every right and wrong
we have in our memory
by feeding
our souls
sensation
after
sensation
I
voted for the President today
just
to say I did not want
racist
institutionalization
here
to stay
though
I know
holding my hands out
is hypocrisy
is an exercise of drag-nets
tipping
scaled socio-genetic
experimentation
into economics
and new voodoos
raining masking agents
onto street level magic
as emotional
smoke
and mirror gangs
become what books
used to be
a worthless
artifact currency
the human
soul
I still fight for
is an
easy street willingness
to
sell a tale it tells
finding
it harder and harder
to
experience joy
without
panning the gold
of
a voracious voyeurism
that
farms the empty
of
cage occupant therapy
daring
it to lean
beyond
reason
or to stay mad
or
nervous
or
broke down
like I am
EJR
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