My Palace in the Shade
My Palace in the Shade
I’ve spoken to my
hands before,
whenever I’ve had
visions
of Hitler in hell
with a hose up his rectum;
my laugh reaches
new limits.
Why—peeping through
Hoffman’s camera—am I
more alive alone
now than when I am with another man?
I know people have
nightmares about blood,
if not blood,
roots. It’s an excuse
to keep dying, or
ask for the time. My palace
in the shade is
full of books packed with questions.
Is the law, cops
rubbing their eyes, and its curvature,
an American
sentence? Does it have the right
syllable count?
Is it true doves
demand they be allowed
to go to war in
heaven?
I’ve become a
saint. My grace has
a catheter in its
nadir.
Wow, this is great...Janet aka Derailedpoet
ReplyDeleteThank you Derailed!
ReplyDeleteSergio