Jitterboy

Jitterboy lives in the darkest preserves of our

neural reserves, the fraught slave of impulses

without which we never would tremble or twitch

out of terror or rage or whatever intractable

verve must ignite in our nerves what incites

us to nth degree stages of feeling, emotional

volumes and realms, all attempting to hold back

the murderous sting of that moment’s most feared

and/or yearned-for last thing. Jitterboy’s there

to forsake all resistance: push past so the blast

overwhelms, and we’re sapped of all agency:

now we can’t opt for calm, because Jitterboy’s

lunged into us like a bomb, and shattered all

prospects but meltdown. If this makes him

sound like a sadist, a monster, a dark clown

from hell – well, I just stole a glimpse of him

trembling before me – nothing reached out

to me more than his tacit appeal for release:

for some peace: for some other recourse than

what he’d been enforced to induce: only possible

truce was with death. He shivered there, wide

eyes entreating, all jittery rapid soft breath.

.