Meditation on a mugging, and just after

These are the things we should trust.  The things that return us to dust.

The young man’s sport is unsettling.  Because it’s really moving.  Anything’s possible and everything’s gravy.  Jelly’s what I mean.

Likewise I should take on a psychically healthier habit like smoking.  Something which doesn’t mean anything, and so is a perfect circle.

The sirens of a country home come alive.  Crows and crows.  Cocks and crows.  Skinnied prose.  Blood poison.  These doodle in the dust til dawn.

But if this were a parade, it'd be a parody of a parade—not one extra pair of legs, just me pared down to a shade laid long on a stringy road.  Is image the warmth of it when we finally touch it, or is image the eye wrapped in layers around it?

I've been growing steadily into a very small boy.  Something Merlin and Virgo.  This is handed down.  Whirling in the hardware section.  I keep it funky cuz the wolves are coming.  Glib through the jaw, plush and sweet.  Just meat between teeth.

I am a healthy diet.  I hide in this room.  This is the busy life of a mongrel.  Without enough words in the periodic traffic of outside and underground.  Only shuffling concrete and hustling bystanders unaware of the nightly witness, each muffled gunshot is a lesson—each person isn't real.

I just need to see one from another.  Then it'd all be easy.  Then I could really get to work.  Clear as evil, but broken by its inbred image.  Show it to me.  Something to shoot.  So when I sever, it can be all cancerous, a marble wedged and firm.  Play dough stuck up my nose.  Extraction baby.  Birth versus berth.  But these birds are all true.  And not everything happens exactly.

Steady resin, setting.  Flicks worth eating.  And pressed against the turning wheel, the bending keel.  Each knee a terrible ending, reaching its nearest aisle.  The drift of these seen letters, I keep spelling her name.  It's that which balks is coughing now, choking down whole notes of scrambled feathers.  Like pages have been felt before my pencil.  Combinations are recipes.  Each feeling, I think, is a meal.

I wish washing weren't necessary.  I'd like to feel the years acrue behind my ears, to color with the days I've gone through.  To be self-evident and smelly, so these accounts wouldn't be necessary.  I never wanted to be an accountant (that was only my mother's hope for me).  But here I find myself counting the daily change into digits too small to even add.  The nettle of a sleepless riddle.  The stricture of coming clean and ending full.