the same dead notes on the keyboard––
the same hollow chambers in the heart.
the calendar reports
you’re all grown up.
your ego says things
couldn’t be better
but it will cost many
life times to expiate
those dirty memories
to boil away the blood
from your crustacean
skin.
guilt
migraine in a windowless
room
you drink black milk to
prosecute the soul; to
keep the spirit cold; the
demons
crazy.
sleep
a train that never
arrives
you are trying to
drop the iron cloak
from your shoulders–– to
cut the shackles from your
chest–– to
breathe.
you have forgotten how
you have sinned, whether you
have sinned, & no
body alive can
remember.
taste your tears.
are they of love or
anguish?
bitter-
sweet nectars of
too-long
life.