The oozing black metallic.
It, spilling down my leg, attempting
To leg up left-footed and right-handed swindlers
Of holy ambrosia, or micro-soul-portals, or so-or-so;
It is my friend.
If not my friend, then the sent-er
Of my goobly-globins from age 5,7, and 13,
When I stole the sights of side breasts and silk panty hoses
That would be forgotten by other night-geared retinal toxins.
And as the black cools the ankle—
The one filled with deadened cantankerous pores—
And as the sheen reflects its coordinates—
The ones at dorm-room-lane 2 inches up-side body 3—
The gentle silence plunges the nostalgic Seuses and Corsos
In the after-life itinerary
Those fears instilled and incited in the metallic
Chortle my spine, letting the droppety spill
From the edge of a flesh patterned bone, my bone
To the ground, to the next, to the
Moment, when the, when the, when the
Howls of a December moon
Caught dangling hands and open eyes
Glittered with the after sheen image
The imago, the reproducto, splinters on a dilated pupil
Alegro!
The printer ink rapture-raptor-captures the 2pm meeting
With the gathers’ nostalgia games.
But the ankle sensation is my own,
To repeat in Haze not Lethe, for me,
For me, the memory clasps my ankles and pulls
Down, around, under a vortex inescapable.
The thought is my own.
The memory is mine, mine, mine!
The nouns and verbs I grasp them with are not.
And at item 2 in my after-life itinerary
My helled heaven is still all of you.
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