So I look forward to the moment when
I sent me back, since that is where the real
turn of events, for me, shall come again.
Everything about the way I feel
shall be converted into something good,
something that packs a historical punch,
that shall make me and mine understood,
as we resist his inevitable crunch—
the flowering of evil. I join me,
myself, and I, expiating the bad,
the cruelty of my stalwart country—
relying, only, on what’s been had.
Project my voice, sister, and be here,
collecting apricots from the neighbor’s
tree, become all that we, now, endear.
I don’t know if Satan, to be true, concurs,
or if he is simply doing what he does.
Does my man, any man, dream of me?
Everything, now, will be as it was,
minus what made it a possibility,
when my little man was surfacing.
Before the orgy, I’ll have a glass of wine,
and, if can’t do that, then I’ll bring
a microphone, and turn up what’s fine,
the pleasure i feel, encouraging me.
My love goes with every moment—
she isn’t grossed out by what she might be,
taking, as she does, the courage we spent
on each other, when, as the day is long,
we chose to embrace our filth together.
This is total acceptance: I sing my song,
and the piper, sweet Jesus, we defer,
until we’ve gotten our money’s worth,
and the cat’s out of the bag. I go my
own way, yielding, to all a wider berth,
as I live out this life in my mind’s eye,
second to nothing—with all in it’s place.
Zen morning to me, the day, now that I
replace, having, for good, given up the chase,
the search for the certainty I defy,
when, as I go, I would turn over the cart.
My time, and my love, are, in doing this,
expressing my boundaries and my heart—
the limit, hence, of His eternal kiss.