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CLOAK/5.6What gets locked away in my little home museum, my private collections of untouchable things—touch oxidizes, stains, my secret treasures, the ones that make me gloat— can't keep from slipping downstairs for a fast fix of rapture, just standing there thinking, Mine. |
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Monumentally selfish, unwilling to share, to risk criticism— sixteen blind spots and a squint my visual apparatus. At perpetual high noon, my spirit costumed like a beekeeper sits sweating on a tree stump throne, through a haze of screen observing insects mine the sawdust at my feet for sugars— the scuttling search for back entrances, the mania for concealment. |
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Out of orbit, renegade— just accept it as proper, no fear, no desire. The career belt recedes in milky clots down the drain of distance. Who goes there, flaming recurrences, wild omens on the way to becoming spectacle in the skies that shimmer over what I've left behind. | Home the lonely narrow path between the rock wall and the road, a dirt string beaded with animal corpses and grasshopper discharge, a ditch in waiting, just one or two blown tossed tires away. |