Black Spring : When

The clock is not time, fool. And they sing their pathologies like oaths, though obedience is not virtue. Haven’t we obeyed the evil beyond saving for long enough, chased the devil’s leaf and called arriving luck. A volta this season. A whole double-blind nearing. She is a genius. He is a witch. What if. And it is so. Adjusted. We all had to. A man is not a clock, love. Had to clock him and run, tuff. But somehow in the photograph I was one with black eyes. Now I understand the meaning of childhood. And the difference between compassion and the imagination. When I think of that girl, me, she vanquishes everyone and feels no pain, I cannot imagine pain toward her, only the dance of it, the soft wince, the body making its muted mouth shape and then limp retaliation before regenerative collapse. But when I lend her compassion, the same girl, I see the bloody grill and black eyes blooming purple as she swings at the mostors of paradise, amethyst knuckles, brash smile,  laughing at them for being as stiff as minute hands in the hour of parting, teasing them for feeling valid in their former dominance, whatchu thought this was,  loving them for their impotence without it, the machine I mean, the state, she struts to their broken fate in naked lace and suede, just cause I don’t eat it, doesn’t mean I won’t kill it if it steps to me rough and wilting    adorn its resting place in the stage of poplar from which  we became so popular for turning new colors into sorrel and  song and counting the days by how large a batch we we made from light   to light I swung like xanax , landed on the eighth note of    tomorrow: time travel as easy as doing what you came to do  when you came to do it which is always now