Building the house of crazy.
Children's brass knuckles, the wild God grace of hills, a stupor of saints, a cardboard box of snow. The world often too hot to touch, shimmering with cosmic astonishment & palomino songs. A butter bean bald baby, the fidgety incense of childhood, the smell of burning angels. A woman, me, knocked down in daylight, for moments a Christmas red punching bag hung from basement rafters, hit & slapped by a ugly stink with brown teeth who smiles & grabs his cock saying, "How'dja like a mess of this?" Midnight lake birds fly soap white in the city's freeway billboard klieg light showers. Summer, the season of love & prayer. Can you float your prayers into the great nothing, that so often gives us back that: nothing? Dancing Christmas in saints, I ask you, did you ever want to be anything? Knowing the warped touches of love & God & the ravines of crazy in our civilizing cities, I ask you, who will last touch your certain dead body? Who will you last touch? Under summer festival's blue striped tents, old women Slovene polka together to the "Blue Skirt Waltz" & I, on streets with saints' names (Blvd. St. Michel, St. Paul), rummage toward their unstrung light, charting my body's ruptured bilocations. Backstage of myself, I'm defining beauty, barefoot in the whisper slipper of saints' songs. He saw me bruised with hours, a scar, a white out guest of violence, a certain yellow outline meant for cement.