Nakedness, like a Knownothingism.
Vision, soiled & “it’s like his mind
left his head all-of-a-sudden” but
that’s destiny & you were a native
in your own cage; a bird, throwing a
tantrum; your flowery opal’d sweet
-ness in the sense of visuals must’ve
snuck-off like a mischievous child;
an archetype of the current global
distresses; sick as a dog, like myself,
to be called “Ishmael” at the end of a
book, first, like a gravestone with
your name already carved into it,
right after birth. You had sought me
out like a whale to taunt in a strange
New World but I was nowhere to be
found. I had gone where the Universe
flows outward, to the ends, to the
utmost to take Space as Space for you
to leave me with an echo that moves
just under the Speed of Light. What
am I doing to be so relaxed like this?
Why has my routine in Life become a
fill-gap, a recoil against Time? Waste
Time & learn a language, they say.
Do Intellectuals exist merely because
one has too much leisure? The dead
will soon rise up & out from under our
feet! America is oft understood as
merely a Hell of widened wastelands;
gestural, hypothetical; geography for
vultures; foreign as a bastardization of
talents without mercy. Grains of purpose.
Your lustful eyes held as a desideratum,
a paleness, as if corpses are repeatedly
born from your womb, like a rotting
America with one leg in her grave.