Wednesday, September 1, 2010

She

echoed in the hollow of her ear. And thoughts
powerful-like banging, the break of apathy
like hammers through white-wall,
plaster everywhere. I wish I could collect
my thoughts. The range of rages happens to include
self-hate, along with less obvious and more subtle and more
redundant forms of fall-and-break, like
cute animals that eat each others’ eggs and
ugly animals who dig to hide
so long and deep they lose their sight, and mosquitoes.
There is nothing good about mosquitoes
except their deaths, and watching them
try. I saw a man with one of them, huge,
tattooed on his forearm, right next to the skull of a jester,
optic nerves hanging like umbilical cords
or tether-ball strings. Now what does that tell you
about mosquitoes? Unless it is
surgically removed, that man will die one day and mosquitoes
from Mozambique to Maine will take the credit, buzzing.