You desired; pen me a poem, something, anything,
I could only shovel out a comedy, deep from the ancient dirt.
Retreating between the skins, sealing my eyes, I woke up,
Too broke to lose, too proud to gain, I am at peace.
And the bliss is sickly sweet, it numbs my senses,
Blinds my skin, makes me happy; a sense so barren,
So orphaning, no pain could delight, just joys to deceive.
What in the world or beyond could I have impressed,
Upon the red brick walls that guarded the state boulevard,
Lest my limbs are twisted, and my bone cage unsensed.
Men who set out on voyages from adults’ play parks
To children’s battle fields, beyond every sunrise,
The three witches’ lullabies put them to rest in lap of the winds.
For the salts with every sighs that rescinds.
The cold churnings, so comforting since forever,
Have been remarkably loyal even when
There were no stars left on my quilt to wish upon.
When the nerves were untamed, I could remember
Anything, whether it ever happened or not.
How could I now orphan my queerness?
That made me, beneath all the trophies, strange.
Reaching out for the stars, got to clear through the clouds;
On human heads as stilts raised by ideas that shroud.
As the broken glasses on my path reflects the vulgar lights
That blind my eyes and the treasures bite under my feet.
I should not complain for am marching the fable street