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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