Sometimes, something will happen,
and Thinking says,
“This is changing Me into More Me.”
I am becoming Me!
Discovery is creation!
O, warm bloody and flourished life,
I adore thee!
The concrete beneath is a trampoline!
Then, a broken necked raven lost
& crashed illmellifluous
jars the view.
Can’t. So goddamn much can’t
the CDC came round
to make sure I don’t spread.
Pesticide. Vaccine. Antidote! I wanna be
fucking fertilizer! I wanna be
SOIL!
Inertia sears into immutability.
The doctors say nothing can touch me.
Need. Want. So
desperately for anything to touch and just stay.
But mine eyes have seen
the gory of the bowing of the lords:
the smallest meaningfuls send all
sailors vomiting to the rails,
or worse, in their own stupor, so diligently remiss
are we to be touched in anyway that is not implicitly
escaping touch.
I can’t want to see what Hamlet couldn’t unsee
in Yorick’s unflinching eyes, in his father’s putrescent
shadow,
acrid, stark
dialectics
& briny B/W fetishes,
pickling vice to virtue&back,
so I can’t unsee this quintessence of dust
blotting out the moon.
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