you are a complex circuitry of veins and arteries
a compendium of extremities and intimacies

you are either a trillion accidents or a single success
a whisper of life or a shattering of precedents

your structure is art
your conception a masterpiece
mechanically, you are beautiful

the core of this existence is uncertainty
does your rib cage shiver around the catechisms?

at your worst, you are
the part that can not be cut open
the part that can die before the body

your existence is a war
a perennial blooming and crumbling
your mind and body's slow destruction
flinging themselves together and apart

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread

They ask me what I see,
What I see when I'm dreaming,
What I see when I'm listening,
What I see when I'm writing,
But I don't see; I understand,

I understand how minds work,
I understand how hearts work,
I understand how my world works,
But I don't understand them.

Why can't people accept it?
Why do they need to know why?
Why do they want to know?
But they don't want to know why; they want to know what.

If I see their futures,
If I see the dead,
If I see words before me,
But I don't see; I understand.

So when they ask, what do I see in you?
I don't reply. I smile,
Because when I dream,
And I listen,
And I write,
You know what I see?
What I've always seen:
You.

They said you were old
And grown up,
I didn't understand who you were apparently
Because I was too young.
So I tried to prove my maturity
But I ended up further back from where I started.
Now I sit alone.
Sliding down a ***** back to where I started
In the darkness.
Don’t send me back there,
Don’t make me that way again.
Please.