I
Take this highway
you’re on now
it leads to a desert—
a long groove
worn into stone
where you can howl
obscenities at an
unconcerned sky.
II
If only you could escape
you’d take it with you.
This is the joke you play
over and over.
It isn’t funny
anymore.
III
I used to fear
words would leave
that I’d lose them.
Now they overflow
say too much.
I don’t know
how to stop them.
IV
One more
I say
Just one more
not to have
but to give.
V
And it comes to this
you do or you don’t.
You end up walking
the same gray corridor.
VI
I used to tell myself
love is enough
the air sufficient
but it all runs out
even time
ink wasted
on a page.
VII
What’s this?
laughter?
Why do I go on
sifting these fields of lies?
VIII
Broken brushes
twisted contours
why have they abandoned me?
Is it me who’s giving up?
IX
Who keeps chasing after me
telling me I can’t?
Whose child am I?
If I told them to leave me alone
wouldn’t I be talking to myself?
X
Bent and water-stained
photograph of a young
woman, soft skin over-
exposed color too strong
cream etched naked into
eighty-yeared cheeks
XI
Why is this the answer
to a sidewalk full of people
who never give a damn?
XII
How have all these words not
sounded even a single note?
What am I trying to play?
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