Saturday, September 29, 2018

What One Might Just as Well Call “Soul”



.
Depict it! Thunder with significance – you nervous
sparrow on a picket fence – you fifty-minute silence
in a glacial psychoanalytic session: justify that
facial tic – that tiny stutter of expression: what’s that
.
half-lit smile, that artificial glossy guile – part stiff,
part sad: you get that from your dad? Nail that
damning rhyme that plagues you all the time: kick it
in the assonance. Don't take any sass from your
.
first memory of crying, diapered, in the grass: pass
it on like Kleenex to that crazed black man who’s
cursing his synapses – spitting his Tourettes out in
the subway – leather cabbie cap on backwards:
.
looks good, doesn't he? Wasn't he the scary fucker
coming after you in last night’s dream – the one
at whom you tried to scream but couldn't? Wouldn't he
look fine reclining next to you in bed, about to nuzzle
.
sleepily into your armpit with his sweet warm head?
You'd watch him take a dip – lick your needless
nipple, feel the ripple through what one might just
as well call “soul.” You would give that to him whole.
.
.

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