An epistle told by blinking

I spoke to myself when my mom crawled like a dog
dragging its easy parts on the floor: a verdict of nerve
damage long-standing and irreversible, and talentlessly
I called myself the victim. What a poor boy so wealthy
until he was off hungry. I had best speak direct.
Confessions, in the manner of Sexton, in the manner of
white trash that cracked a book or a room of them.
To begin in the infinity of Borges, near his color,
I wrote an infinity of things unending that all bear
the color of suffering, that is, off-white when I
blush in the mirror for how it deceived me whitening.
A mutt panting on Adonis’ leg. A body without discipline.
I spoke to Kerouac and he drove off with all my instinct.
A year spent pretty good and no chance for memory.
I stole once or twice, and my cheeks filled with
hard red bloodclots and dead Genet whisking his face
into mine said all things will prove the math
of having been, and having been irredeemably sad.
Burroughs put the pill under my tongue and my brain
sat crosslegged humming harder than any other man has.
This travelogue is a short map of twelve years,
lined horizontally, where the days lap up like molecules
that count by count make up a cell and make up a hand
on anyone’s shoulder, and counting more, the pleasure in it.
I am a lonely few billion cells. I wrote to Africa
and poor Africa wrote back, saying its marijuana
isn’t marijuana but the palms of California and all
men dance within those fickle little hands. Dambudzo
died in my arms while I told him who he fucked last night.
Black as the inside of my eyelid and obvious for it.
Holy hell, what black men wrote of deviancy before
deviancy ever knew its proper name, spoken politely,
nowadays, sometimes with hints of decrement for
adolescence so long a man might live wholly in it.

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~ by Jeremy on June 16, 2012.

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