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a day ago, the muggy heat

was a creeping thing

between the brainpan,

like a bombardier beetle

with its reactive chemical

compounds, raising its

temperature to the

nearing point of boiling water—

then the rain came—

then a dialectical spasm

of Cold brought a beautiful

muffing-up—table reading:

leafing through JFK’s death,

appalling nightmares—

what were my grandparents

doing at this time? I am trying

to grease the November night,

popping a star like a

celestial pimple; gumming up

space, as I space out

about everything aurora-like

& children are playing

basketball in the street

with sweaters on; metaphors

for Time as it sweats

through the pants-leg

of burning fabric, stinging

the legs, wasp-like translations—

what would happen if

the universe were alive

with the spirit of human life?

To question its authenticity,

verified by something

probably called   “           ”

—a question is often answered

by a response that

shakes the globe—

Underdogs of a war—

my grandfather was in the Service

but he does not like

to talk about it—no one speaks

of their past in my family

with such great emotion

& detail like that of my uncle,

but my Mother just told me

about a man who was

caught stealing electronics

at Best Buy; he ran out

of the door into a pack

of Marines, a pack of wolves