95: coma, interlude 21


it’s often the case
one doesn’t know
who one’s with.

for example, once
I slapped a roach
off Henry’s shoulder
but it was a skin roach,
a roach construed
of melanin and the tree
shadows convening
on the lake shore,
some outing time,
some autumn, maybe.

it’s likely, I said,
that a roach’d fall
from the trees and land
on your shoulder
and that out of goodness
I would use
my hand to slap it off.

in the tree dappling,
in the strange play
of onioncolored light on the water,
in the oddest formations
of the freckles of him
he became a monster
there, watched by me,
an alien eating
hamburger, chips,
watching me with green eyes,
an elephant nose on his forehead,
an albatross wing cross his cheek,
his green eyes watching me
as green eyes would watch,
spying a devil appearing
out of myth
to watch him back with brown eyes
in staring match,
watching for things to emerge.

all while the future
accreted in some stinking future
pool, waiting
to crawl out on fins
and seed the world
with woe
out of their little
pumping asses.

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