It’s not that I see another man
or hear another man’s voice.
I wish it were so simple,
but I don’t, it isn’t.
Something happens, that’s all.
Something happens, not a crack in the sky,
just a slithering inside,
a movement from here to there,
and it becomes all different.
Imagine asking a dog,
skewed down in the middle of the road,
simple gunfire falling,
his heart ripped open,
a child dead near his jaws:
So, tell me, why do you lick your balls?
I know. Old joke. Compulsion.
Not to tell, but to lick.
To suckle on a self.
To chew at a life, frothing.
This leg here in the trap and what the fuck?
I’m not barking here. You think I am.
It looks on playback as though I’m barking.
Garish, in and out of focus.
But I’m not barking here.
If only I could talk this language for you.
Speak what I spoke. What I’m shouting.
Smart fools everywhere. See that?
An arching hollow back, like I’m throwing up letters.
Imagine an African, 300 years ago,
tomorrow, babbling pigin,
his own perfect language,
spitting all he has, shouting:
“Let me go, let my heart go,
kill me and stop this thing, please God,
the worst of it is all true;
my wife cut to little pieces, my children,
three and five, shredded dead in a pit,
my dick, that only other friend, taken from me,
my hopes all some puppy in a happy white sack,
kill me now.”
That’s what it sounds like to me.
Not to you. To you, it’s a howling
and a need to put him down.
The old new beast.
Some blackbrown raggedydoll.
Fucked-up with sickness.
Unreliable animal. Unknowable,
let’s lock the doors and find the gun.
Boil some tar, get feathers.
Twitching, Grand Mal stuck in my throat,
skin all raised like my neck is just a hackle.
So sick with something. So sick with something.
Fade to white.