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Reincarnation, life everlasting-- call it whatever you will-- it will not change the facts: we are ashes of stellar death. And, in the end, wishing on shooting stars is like pinning your hopes on the last sound of the whistle trailing off, last chord of the train sparking on the tracks then fading into the dark.
sell me a clip-on
bow-tie or a mock
fringe chapeau worn on
the collarbone—a
new style of “shoulder
hat,” a cape to
protect your shoulders
from rain and chill and
to prevent the wearer
from sliding (like
Mickey Mantle) into
a third gender
__________
now I’ve
reached the “clinker” zone
of perforated opportunities
__________
—perforated appurtenances
____________
but then Edith Piaf
suddenly thrilled me
__________
a newly
discovered Venezuela, a
view—
____________
a rendre compte,
a liar on the corner
(thirsty corner) of
23rd and 9th, a gazelle,
a rendezvous chapel
__________
(a chaplet of
daisies around my
pleurisy brow)—
massa come in like he know i caint cry
new tears
he take what he want
he keep a hot hand
every new hatred
cinch my throat closed.
he take me
give me a name made outta iron
he say it til i ain’t myself
i, sheet rock.
i, a salted wound.
i the upset of everything,
unholy,
this.
