Can’t find it, and on a dirt road the wheels hiccup clichés,
spill city kid lonely looking up, a too clear sky.
Well, the wet morning wants its twilight back,
its promise of neck strain and light pollution, some potential orbits.
When holding my breath in the window,
the sun may read the spots behind my eyes
as a kind of carbonation,
brain bubbling up,
and to where?
Places in the middle are not places to rush through,
we read in english
at the end of the essay.
Insufficient transliteration, all this in black and white.
It seems even Van Gogh knew color couldn’t save anyone,
and if he ate yellow paint as commonly suggested, it was just a form of self harm,
not any pursuit to internalize sunshine or joy.
Agreeing, I’ll still fingerpaint on docks,
make the meteor shower from thumbprints and pond
at the neck of a spiritual detour.
If I vibrate with vibrations other than yours,
must you conclude that my flesh is insensitive?
Jewishqueerfreak Nazi-fighter Claude Cahun
repeated words because they were important.
Oh the buzz of insensitive flesh.
At the neck of a spiritual detour, I repeat me.
To pass requires a kind of imitation
I never seemed capable of with my big mouth,
being busy and all staring at the ceiling’s mold constellations
and stamping into leaf piles thick as concrete.
Tried to learn once and the driving instructor said to hold the wheel
like holding a boy, not to squeeze so tight.
We’re very sensitive, me and all my selves, and never went back,
startled as we were to discover ourselves mythical.
What’s the tincture for homesickness at home?
I want to move through marked doorways with ease.
To feel the spooling of white stripes of road, forthcoming and back and out,
though someone else seems to be doing the spinning.