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What I got
is the pure lotuslove
of seeing the first lightspray of detonated creation
even in the busted-up world they sell you.
Seeing in me
as tired and overworked
as old gum
the unbearable passionmouse of infinite
stupid trashcamp joy
and hewing to that.
It’s the riddle of me, baby. I am
everywhere exploited exhibited exhausted
and I am still holy.
It doesn’t matter
what they do to you.
Make you a permanent joke
sell your heart off piece by piece
robber princes
ruin everything
it’s what they do
like a baby cries.
Look at my opposite number.
It was never coyote versus roadrunner.
It was both
against Acme
mail order daemon of death.
Stick with me. Someday
we’ll bundle it all up again
the big blue-luminous ball of everything
your father
