Poem for circulation
Things surrounding things fill my Wicked Tuna grid heart with a swishy austerity-like intention. I cut my post-fleshy forearms & bleed a serious parallel echo chamber reading everything to approve of nothing. I massage my anterior cruciate ligaments to celebrate a hard won royal flush. This mind is slick-like and easy-like and music-like and gesture-like and, as I am the dappled heathen you've been given internal permission to dismiss from your sacrosanct barricades and bounty systems, coy, and shit-like. A second first-person recapitulation does not defiantly buy shape rightly here. Sane continuity is your trashy blues making progress out of heart's lack. How should I know you're not there bleeding, respectably to conclude a moist relentment and make my evil labors clear?
Copyright © 2012 by Anselm Berrigan. Used with permission of the author.