Black Friday

A bird sits in

the palm of

my hand,

collecting an energy,

its hollow bones a

precious persuasion

to turn

out,

and not

in

And I was going to

pen a plea

about the collective

hunger of countries,

from Appalachia

to somewhere other

in Africa,

on this black

market day

of fast-food,

faster-mouthed,

cowboy

consumption

But that

faithless bird

collected itself

right into nothingness,

fooled by a

false clarity

of clouds on panes,

and my eyes

recede

(I let them leave),

rolling to

seek the

smudge of truth

at the back

of my id

So here I am again,

masturbating

with the ink

of my words

on an organ of rain,

feeling for

the perfect exposition

to rub resolutions

that can wring

from Freud

a nod of epiphany,

as he strokes

the leather

and beard

But there are

few arrivals

among the fallen,

only more pains,

more windows,

more flights

and departures

to get lost in

and hungry,

if also

and blessedly

corralled and

dazzled,

fucked and

humbled

And certainty is

a black and white

straitjacket

I’d love to try on,

buy

and burrow in,

hibernating

all winter long

in a reflectionless

room

that plays

our song,

over and over

and over

again

Instead,

I’ll sing something

brokenly,

like a small child

afraid of an
echo's betrayal,

my tune changing

on a dime

or your quicker nickel,

wheels spinning for

the weightlessness

of air

in that doubtful country

between take-off and

landing

Until my bones are

hollowed of

all their finite ego,

this cheap longing