I place heavy reliance on my monthly expulsion of shame
that escapes as a  stream of black or red ribbon
depending on what corner of sky the moon is in
that week.
hope my future will forgive me for remaining so fickle
& portentous
& holding so many needless theories
about the whole thing
I need:

the force-fed fever or the fury,
the moaning or the excessive worry,
the albatross I drape
along the shapes that the shades leave on my waist
when I’m alone & in sudden need,
some emergency that forces me back under the sheets
in a pretty heavy dysthymic fit of
missed opportunity.
the adamantine hooks in my shield forcefully
tearing me from my state of
drooling
moping
tranquility
that wakes me up
whatever time one of them decides they need
me.

this sin of all things,
sex in light of the morning-
his mouth picking at benign cysts,
my spine:
anfractuous & bundling,
native twisted knife in my life,
tongue sodden with effort
drained from the prayers & the moans & the beckoning phone.
this road is sinuous & paved with indifferent intentions.
we are disgruntled apes:
we choose grapes & mud slurry
over contact every time.
we choose as if we have to:
impenitent thirst or the gentle mercy,
the lie or the glory,
we say:
my god, how could you! or I’m sorry.
pause when agitated or doubtful
(or sink your mandible heart on them).
and I know I stay complex & unsatisfying:
a math problem with too many fractions
but you know you’re getting closer
to summer.
I stay manic & contemplate the meaning of the word
wait
but
your eyes kill me
so I stay put
I say
(tell me what to call this)

“grace”

 

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