Quick-draw heart,
an ever-overwrought gun
set to rock and roll
when triggered.
Small thermonuclear
mouth, hardwired to blow
when coupled with
strategic command ears.
Hands, not as deadly
but as willing to bash and bang
as the rest. Eyes, tossers
of darts and daggers.
I’m an armory waiting
to be raided. Waiting
to be looted and then have
my weapons turned against me.
People
retire daily.
There is
precedent for it.
I am going to
stop cold
soon, end this
nonsense, stop with
poems, end this
blather and
get back to
what I was before
I was Seized.
Everyone
scoffs,
but they don’t understand
how little of this
has made me
happy.
Maybe I wasn’t meant to be happy —
but I damn sure need to try and
this is the only thing left to
eliminate —
the only silencing
of compelling voices
left to be done,
so it shall be done.
If it takes and I live,
all the better. If it doesn’t take,
then I will die and then
it will take. One way
or another,
I shall one day
be rid of the words.
The goal
always is that I
will disappear
from the poem.
The goal, always,
is that I see the poem
for what it is: the Being
beyond this being,
and always the goal
is that I am to push it
ruthlessly forth
so that when it appears
it will
always be
without me
visible by its side.
Let go. Vanish,
I always say. I fail often,
succeed rarely.
I keep trying,
hoping always that one day
I will disappear entirely
into one, lay down the pen,
and know that as a good ending.
Dark Matter 