9.05.2003

Box

Maybe I’ll sprout wings
And fly
And someday melt the sun
Until it fits in my hand
Or beat the air
With untrained hands,
And when blue becomes saturated
With the tears that only black could cry
We will fight
And barter blows
For scars and ruptured understandings.
It’s not enough to understand;
Blood is required
In exchange for whispers
And whispers don’t even exist.
If escape is a verb,
Then surrender is death.
Surrender is the lure
Of inexpensive days
Stretched to cover times loom,
Stretched to hide the unknown.
Cardboard sanctuaries
Make prayers thin and hollow
And allow knees no carpet
For repentance.
I would light a candle
And offer a midnight vigil
To saints who can’t see
Through soul-thick walls
But it would consume me.
And liberate me.
I’ll take the long step down
From the soapbox facade
That I’m not on,
As I cross into something
That would green all yellow
And dream in shades
Of whitened black
And blackened white
That intersect at help,
At vacant parking lots,
And at desperate whispers,
That say more than words.
I am Icharus,
If not Lincoln,
But never Sparticus,
Letting others fill my walls,
Letting others bear my cross,
Others whose names
Resemble conspiracy,
Anarchy and s e p a r a t I o n .
“I” should be lower case standing alone,
But grammar is against me;
It wars,
And fights,
Unfair, southpaw,
And I am striking the air,
Running in vain
With all that strives against me.
What I need is holy matrimony,
A joining of parts of me
I divorced
And forgot,
The faces I keep in other selves.

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