O dark charlatan,
snap-brimmed flip flops
clapping between the earth and you,
listen,
listen for the vacuum that
forms the
fistfuls of words
frowning in your pockets.
You know the words that
others will understand but
you refuse to arrange them,
decrying them as cheap.
So take it easy.
Handlebars on the platter.
Jugs of rubber on the clockboard.
Singing apples in the church basement.
Acid on the diving board.
Gritted dismissals in the jaw.
Announce your deprivations,
starting from the tic that went
unnoticed in the
first hours of your life and
remained ignored as too obvious.
The tic grew into a bloody circle,
racing darkly to infinity while
never leaving its hiding place,
surging into the consciousness of
anonymity, covering
vicarious lovers with
unredeemable scars.
