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i looked up into the full moon through
silver light rimmed clouds.
soft rays of dead light twinkled,
craters of the universe
echoing
without as much as a murmur.
exploded specters
when i burst i do so loudly. as distinct as the
echelon in the sky over my gaping mouth. pushed me further
down than i was ready to go, how the weight of the cosmos drove me into the concrete.
found the flaw
fuck where's waldo.
i've got to dissect. not even heaven would be safe from my steady blade.
i'm going to open it up when i get
low enough.
sliced through dry skin. there lays my
mute beauty. physics i am
atoms.
defiantly,
another beam of slow decay,
a blemish on the face of God.
when you had that thing in me
you were blacked out,
you wore your secret secrets as a crown of sadness drizzling
onto my tits, covering me with hidden questions
looking for
answers in the matted pink beneath tangled pubic hairs.
my body the shame confessional. am i a nude shrink?
no, the junkie oracle whose out-reach program
is never obsolete...
get an arrangement of daily activities-
prayer groups, books, work,
seminars, lovers, drugs,
but it comes back...
that vast expanse of empty potential because love
there will never be enough help
for the two of us fucks who will never be joined enough
even if we are
held together through
diversion tactics.
a reason for living is
the glimmer of interaction read on a face. in smooth coal nights
on top of a filthy bed, mounting a crippled horse and trying to ride away into the
day break.
upon which i will
put on my self for anonymous
pockets of isolation to read, dive into
swim around in.
routine nostalgia, a
phone cord outlet.
obsess over
faint abscess....
pick at or have it
cut out. words, words, and then again more
words because
escape is a persist.
i was ten as
cedric and i moved our legs
as fast as we could. we were going to race
to the sun, it was "dusk"
and the sun looked bloated, fat...even with the horizon
gonorrhea fire.
"we're going to race to the sun"
"you'll never make it".
never made it.
this latent emptiness of passion,
you see it was
sucked out as if a
poison.
look
who i was suppose to be is
making faces at this thing
i am.
our are
hour
has passed.
sun fully sank.
Anne McMillen has been published in Open Wide and Kagablog and featured in Deep Cleveland Poetry. She wrote a column for The Hold. Her local police department has blocked her calls.