No Begatting Ensues
Why do they call it a slight when it’s really a slice, a sky
shot through with August lightning troubled by glowering
cirrus? Lowered, low-pressure clouds, brows, the glare that begat
your corresponding squint. Your ache. You can’t keep telling
that story. Everyone’s shifting in their seats, desperate
for the exit. And you say fuck too much. It’s unbecoming,
doesn’t become anything. Unlike the actual act of unprotected
procreation no seed gets planted, becomes bloom. No begatting
ensues. Therefore, learn to ignore. To abhor. Rhyme
when nothing else will do. Know that sound is a barrier
you punch through. On the other side is what? That cave
where the first people painted their dreams? We called them
something. We made them nothing. Begat them out of history.
White-washed their walls. We can do that from here. Steal dreams
when we can’t find ours. What’s left is a box of toy soldiers,
like the ones my friend methodically cut the guns from,
so her son wouldn’t know people shoot people. Wouldn’t want
to shoot. It didn’t work. He made a gun from his finger,
scrap of wood, half-eaten buttered toast. He begat his way
to death in the abstract, all those plastic men holding nothing
in their arms. Pointing to the horizon where a white whale
breaches and spumes. Another blowhard story of obsession
and possession, tit begatting tat. I’m rubber you’re glue.
Got you back. Got your back. I want you back. Which leads us
to singing. Because we’ve got to use our mouths for something.
Kissing, if possible, whistling, if not, which keeps us safe
in the dark. (They say.) (From well-lit rooms.) Calls the faithful
dog back to us. The one who stole the bone, buried your heart.
O the heart, you knew you’d end up here. Fuck. Sing something.
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