I’m being so candid I’m a pattern. So many casual flags churning on the rim of my heart/I’m being so human I’m a choir. The knights of faith are dangerous and I feel safest with them /blackbirds flying in the ripe-ripe finity of tribe. In love with eternity. Kierkegaard presses against my window like a playdoll. Fear and Loathing. It’s a thing about living happily ever after I do on purpose and by accident too. I’m being so childlike I’m a child. At the abortion clinic we held hands and fell out of love with wideness and then back in with a wild lean. And you kept me---
I once read how all the cocaine burst out of Richard Prior like he was a piñata and now the kids from that birthday party, extras in a film of his, all day on a set of burnt grass and hugging balloons, how now they believe in negro angels and try to open every terrible door with a baseball bat or a joke about black habits or a line from a Pam Grier flick like 'you don't know what is.' I read that I was one of those kids. A bulge in the minutes makes us scream inside. I remember now, how we can make sound without being seen. The scream creates room for silence. I picture the silence and get a nauseous sense of peace that makes me suck on ginger and miss the ridges in him enough to press all seven buttons with my eyes shut. The smile in him sounds like it hurts but I hang up before he can tell me why. Something like starting from the beginning feels like the right thing to do. When I dial again it all swings with kisses
