Images in New Jersey, Ideas that are Our Fault

What do you want me to prove?

That I read? That I have culture?

That I have important ideas

that you can’t see

from your consciousness?

There is nothing new

in this world

but what we make

and call new.

And you want it said quietly?

Slowly? With purpose?

Allusions toward obscurity

flooded in language?

Here is an image for you:

A year old condom,

and a single rain boot

dance on the foamy shore

of Sandy Hook, New Jersey.

The condom, half-filled with

bubbly water, deflates

as a young girl

in a baseball cap and

dirty-white gloves

drops it in a trash bag

and another idealist

puts a tally mark on a clipboard,

parallel lines uncomfortably together.

The image, disturbed

by the youths, is regenerated

the next day. Another boot,

another dance, another rubber.

How can I say this quietly?

There is a lot of trash out there.

Back to type,

my fingers, ink,

techno-natural

creativity pours

from neurons

onto white space

in the birth of matter

from primordial idea.

Home in my small

unkempt cave

under blankets,

hunched over keys

alphabet blazed

symbols on their chests,

I type to fill time,

and empty my brain.

While writing

has great tradition,

and infinite canvass,

my boxy white corner

of the universe is happy,

caught in its own trap,

expanding slowly

with the rest of everything.

wash.

bleach yesterday’s bones.

return His relics to the mantle.

we are barely tomorrow,

so save it, or trash it.

all the time is in

tomorrow’s bed.

3

Fingers and thumbs touch;

motion;

sleep.

2

fingers and thumbs are naked halos;

I am wet and drunk;

self-tactilation;

motion;

sleep.

1

My fingers and thumbs touch. Make halos.

The felt self of skin and brain send reciprocal messages.

An idle escape plan.

There is water

and I am naked. It is Thursday or Saturday --

drunk and mid-circuit, a time to wait.

Self-tactilation is difficult when attacked by choice.

Self-destruction is easy when not in motion;

this is a lie.

Deep breaths. Put back on bed. Touch fingers.

Grab hold. Lock arms. Do not let go.

Sleep. Change position. Sleep.

Writing alone while in love.

Warm room. Feet touch.

In a moment, “I’ve got you.”

I can’t say it like you do.