yeah that's what I thought
to the music of the vacuum
cleaner,
cleaning out my eyes
of every indigo vision
ever taught to be still.
photographed, perhaps,
bleached out washing line blues,
post-machine whir. blank.
I taught the kid in me that laughter
was for squares; shut my mouth,
shut out. pointed at the earth,
like a prophet.
and I strung my guitar with awkward
fingers, plucked the strings with awkward
gestures--
sang a song with a crushed voice- voiceless-
and left every note standing on its own; lonely.
yeah that's what I thought,
candid without a candle--
over the handlebars, shocked
into the sea,
ephemeral, black and black,
a stone in the throat.
croak. bark. slit.
so, forgive this pen of words--
absolution I do not seek.
do not seek me.