Now has been
my only word.
I haven’t needed others. Now
my garment has been snatched from me,
I need a name
to cover my nakedness . . .
How tiresome. How terribly O.T.
Tell me,
are you really psyched
about the old man’s wedding? All that cant
about lamps and virgins,
while we still can’t choose
between the serpent and the tree. This
I know:
The body's a rare swarm,
a coalition, but the soul still has a jones for it
despite its gaggings and betrayals
—like a bhikkhu or a crack-star
itching for a hit. Such a palsy
of enlightenment.
such a Gee-I-never-asked-for-this,
such an All’s-unfair-in-love-of-war,
such a Shouldn’t-ought-
to-be-this-way, such a Wanting-out.
So look, I’m trying on some names for me:
The Garbled Pawn.
The Jeweled Sling. The Faulty First
Impression. The Coating on the Hidden Tongue.
The Puppet Skin.
The One Who Blinked.