Letter Five – I Seek to Birth Myself –

(After Milk by E. Myles)

 

The alarm.      The nostalgia for darkness.     The

people relegated to the underside of the mechanism

in this town called

Slaughter.

Like the beeping of trucks

a respect for paperwork and conformity

tiny is as tiny does     keeps that

chain going

gang up on non-believers.    Blow-dried parks

are a symptom

connected.     Am I the weakest link

in

their drama to perpetuate the collective false self?

Knowing this does not give the porpoise more water

and the orange-shafted flicker more air space for

their ascent.   All in the name of the unmentionable

saving

one would-be pilgrim after

another to die a slow painful respectable stoic parlor-friendly death.

 

The middle of the night is not

morning no matter what they tell you unless you write long enough    your

trucks have a

growl about them no cat disavows.

Oh August Slaughter

save the multi-hued and lazy Slaughter sunset for

me!   Save me

from my descent into skin    or

knowing

myself w/o the parasite of personality.

 

If I can hold out until the next candle

inside is a brutal flower ready for explosion.

I seek to birth myself & yet I

only O.D.        I seek to birth myself & only

melt.

 

3:26AM - 8.05.03