Slapping my                palms               on the pavement

when   no gold             coin                 ever appears.


Skunking                     my face inside out constantly. Glory

running the day          nobody must   see me for me to be me.


I’ll begin                      without            a beginning:

I didn’t want                to be here        to begin with.


No, I’ve                       been     an epistemic catastrophe.

I’ve asked        him      to knock me out,         to run me over.


I’ve asked                     to watch           as he does. I’ve asked

to be nothing               —my blue-wish of anticipation—


done this                      as to be            a proxy                       for his

care.                            I am a rickety vessel.             


A seaborne surrender. I’ve asked     to be this everywhere             

as grocery stores        in this world   are loud oceans too.


All I’ve wanted                       is to paint every          TV screen

black                and thrust my fist       through the glass.


Now I long                  to play my life: minus errant scenes

without                        all this produce                       up for sale.


Me?                             I’ll pick up                  the joystick.    

I’ll weather                  every encounter           if it means


not having                   to sit and stay. I’m seeking

excess.                         I’m wanting                 more.


Wanting some other universe                       where I do                  

more                             than seek         and hide and bleed.