.
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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