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Perhaps now life is more than a newborn.
Moment of the important eyebrows in a pile,
wrinkle-winged, replica of your lips
(not just notation). At twenty-seven
my eyes cling to words like the oceanic-sand
gripping anchors, presumably skull.
I memorize prisms of metropolitan mornings
with sharp ears. Our glands are disabled
on a fast subway train. I would like to narrate
the details of your leaping from rhythm
like the words after a murder, Who shot ya?
Tupac returns in 2013 and iceskates
over everyone. Frankly, I need to daydream
or else the night is like a cold Mexico road,
the wind whistling in my ear-sockets,
cycles through, my head where the beard itches,
and she said that she wanted to be covered
in blankets tonight like hiding behind shrubbery.
In my heart nothing is kept silent
like Grandpa Munster. Speech will not play back
the words of the heart, no indications nor functions
can be carried out, do not even try, as if being
occasionally warned of speed cameras in the mind,
going to unknown places imagined, photographing
the unseen at the seams.