I’m
infused with the day even tho the day may destroy me
I’m out
in it. Placating it. Saving myself
from the
demons
who sit
in blue
coats,
carping
at us
across the
tables.
Oh they
go out
the doors.
I
am done with
them. I
am
done
with faces
I
have seen before.
For
me now the new.
The
unturned tricks
of the
trade: the Place
of the
heart where man
is
afraid to go.
It
is not doors. It is
the
ground of my soul
where
dinosaurs left
their
marks. Their tracks
are upon
me. They
walk
flatfooted.
Leave
heavy heels
and turn
sour the green
fields
where I eat with
ease. It
is good to
throw
them up. Good
to have
my stomach growl.
After
all, I am possessed
by wild
animals and
long
haired men and
women
who gallop
breaking
over my beloved
places.
Oh pull down
thy
vanity man the
old man
told us under
the
tent. You are over-
run with
ants.
2.
Man
lines up for his
breakfast
in the dawn
unaware
of the jungle
he has
left behind
in his
sleep. Where
the
fields flourished
with
cacti, cauliflower,
all the
uneatable foods
that the
morning man
perishes,
if he remembered.
3.
And
yet, we must remember.
The
old forest, the wild
screams
in the backyard
or cries
in the bedroom.
It
is ours to nourish.
The
nature to nurture.
Dark
places where the
woman
holds, hands
us,
herself handles an
orange
ball. Throwing it
up for
spring. Like
the clot
my grandfather
vomited
/ months before he
died of
cancer. And
spoke of
later in terror.
6.20.58
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