A Man As a Gun

to pester myself until I find myself,
scattered in places beyond the places,
reaching for things that I can’t
have.

upwards swinging on a downward spiral,
the edges of the minutes are my own minutes,
and though your minutes may closely match
my minutes,
they are not as heavy or as old.

I dug into skin that wasn’t there,
as renewed memories, blood rose to tops of hairs like
internal bleeding run amok,
floods of my own self and My Desires,
exeptions of gravity time space
so could fall into a perfect uncertainty,
and the old just-standing-and-existing feeling of
being able to see a person and
know that they feel nothing remotely close
to the agonies of being human:

or if they did,
marvelous as it was how they could
fit their parts of being into this nonplussed, nonevented,
nonremorse-anxiety,
to find themselves existing in a miraculous hampering,
(tho i am the one that knows how to survive,
and where to find the fire,
so i say,
in the building of you).

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

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