Shine on, harvest switchblade,
The methadone clinic awaits
At the end of the sentence
Withholding judgment,
But the kewpie doll stares at you,
Sad keeper of flames
Boiling down
The suppressed that's madness
When expressed,
Holding the body's fort
Against the mind's
Backsliding.
You've stood in defiance
Of everything,
Like only a martyr would,
Lost like a tumor in the night's luminescence,
Groping at a question
Formed by longing,
While the words are on the lighted side
With the answer and other
Logical impossibilities
That guide your train through other fields,
Not these palm leaves,
Eucalyptus, cactus,
The jungle alive with deaths
That charm the jarring blur you see through
As you pace in your rotted
Rented room,
With the hardly any furniture you possess
Hardly moved,
Your thoughts are embroiled
But you can hardly touch,
You feel way too close
Yet estranged
At the same time,
Searching through emptied-out skies
For the clouds you thought you outgrew
When you thought they would not be
Thrown out
With the baby blue.
Oh my God, oh my God I did not think
You were in this needle too.
