Reflections at Two

Reflections at 2

usually consist of reflections on “you”

the subject of the self –

the unlaced shoe –

 

I smack my little soldier of death

hard on the rim-lip of the ash tray

and lock it’s smoke into limerick

 

stealing the key away

as if to say “Goodnight Gorilla”

a subtle trick, child’s play

 

and I hope this dread ceases

to curl up into my face,

its wispy kisses stinking,

 

the cat whiskers fresh in my

mind, the old memory uncorked

to breathe

 

and though it was just this

morning, I can’t shake this

feeling –

 

how time unravels, linearity

smashed to bits,

how I unravel, candle-stick

burned down to the other tip

of it’s wick

 

and so then it becomes a matter

of meaning, a test of the wits,

and I’m almost certain Hegel

and Yeats and Whitman all roll

 

in their graves at my butchering

of their syntax,

deconstructing it’s regality,

reconstructing formalities,

 

forcefully imbuing my structures

with meaning, and as the gerund-

list whines like a drone,

 

It’s now my turn to roll –

but not that type of rolling.

the other type where your fingers

sweat,

 

and where  your heart  thumps

in the muffled coves of

the cochlea,

 

“bloody, roiling, pounding that one

is” they say

 

but I’m not too close to Death.

He’s my first cousin twice removed.

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