the wind came in my house
unexpectedly. i was mad
it didn't show up sooner. and
i was mad
it touched my bared skin
when i didn't want that
i was mad it made a noise
i didn't want that
i was mad it came inside my house
i could not sleep until i
slept again.
the wind makes this promise that
it will come back. i don't count on it.
i've compromised for it. it's barely
noticed i'm alive.
the wind talks in a way
that i might as well talk
to myself- nobody gets that
but the source of the voice.
mad prophet, neither of us
are silence.
what you say are reminders that
i have to link myself
far away from what i know
into what i long for, which is
already there- the under-my-nose shit
that i'm so hungry to fulfill
a desire for, a penetration, a sacred
sexual act- a long train
crashing into my sensory know-how.
or an ambulette
or a fire truck
or a cop car
or my mother's car
or a kid on a bike
or a runner with their ears off
or a ball bouncing in the street
or myself in the room
or whatever is going on upstairs
or the television next door
or my taurus ascendant
or my leo descendant
or my long-gone hello kitty phase
or a traffic jam
that does not see me
driving slowly into my center-eye
cyclops like a worm's mouth
or it be a wormhole
which is what i too am
in which god is a fetal thing, unaware
trying to make sense
of how this is not so
