The breakup

makes my lines rhyme
urgently,
as if vertigo, instead of
making a hole in the gut,
preferred an all out assault
on the throne of being,
manipulating symbols
in the nick of time.

I reel at my weakness,
at being led blind
to the slaughterhouse.

My aquatic aspect,
the red, the sharp scale
and the thick wet hidden
by the infantile layer
that black infests.

If there be light
under the cloth,
the hint of redemption
would escape my reading,
the ritual, shamanistic,
pleading or not.

Yes, everything’s dark.
In a circle of sorts,
a lesser comedic respite.
Yes, I speak in tongues.
I used to know facts.
I was fourteen once,
yet I don’t understand
the simplest remark.


jam19