–

Sharp feeling from knowing

I know too little

about too few.

An isolation coming to.

Forensic eyes I always knew.

A sight, a sign I’m wading through.

–

Well I would like to be

every thread of me.

Every possibility.

My woven tapestry

Cauterized. Epoxied.

A futile flesh amalgamy.

–

I’d rather be inside some dark holler

where the sun refused to shine

than to wear some distant

wind warm upon my face

as if it knows the time it tears;

I ponder where it’s born.

–

And as long as we’re lounging in these dreams,

or wading in my tantrums,

I’d read my worn recipe,

remove some bits, clarify some.

Because I don’t see these mantras

etched upon the lids of the man I want to be.

Mantra