November Self-Slay Thought #5

For now the fantasy
rests in, behind, this
dome, cradled and all,
here's one more approach:

Rip every page out of
each book and tape all
pages to all walls
to all ceilings
of the dark bedroom--
even underneath the door
where the crack lets
shadows in, sometimes.

For now the fantasy
rests in, upon, these
pores, brandishing,
brandying, a dirty yellow.

My eyes, those of a child,
struggled to stay
open throughout each year.
Today I had more thoughts
concerning children, and
how so many people give
birth, and everyone grows
unhappy. These fears waned
in song to me, grew assertive.

More focus on absence.
Inject presence-filled needle.

More is less when less
is the vocabulary, a
short minimalistic style
yet begone (like hearth
to stone, like moon to
golden ray upon beach
or swirl of scent of bleach).

Shame quaked open today
like being a child lost
on the playground, searching
for someone to engage.

At work, I woke up.
Shame then quaked shut,
like gaining knowledge
that there is no God
to watch over the people,
and then shouting out to all
this truth . . . blood-red
Morality glimmers under,
embarrassment, corridors
walked. Lie your face off,
then turn around and lie
off the face of that crab.