careening through the pages of my finicky heart,
she bookmarks dreams of intellectual fervors,
inhales jugs of scalding expresso
thinks that golden xanadus exist
only beneath dank railway bridges.
frantz fanon perches high above our humble plot,
prescribing something for our rebel disorder.
the invitation of a summer stormspot
asks us why
do bad people always live
and good ones just die?
in the darkened sheen of her analytic eyes
i find a certain rare comfort,
surprise.
pitter-pat raindrops on the gloss of macadam,
her nailgnawed fingers gently tapping
my unrough palm, as we blow through
this impossibly cruel world, together,
in harmony with the flutterings of unborn butterflies;
together, in sync with the forest’s desperate rhapsodies;
together, in unison with the om
that is so much older
than the mere fall of rome,
even older than the dying marble steps to my home.
the weight of a cherished tome
is the feeling of tasting
someone else’s success.
holding her softly like a favored teddy bear,
we crawl through the murk of mental mazes
to arrive at a stage that trailblazes:
her last jug of scalding expresso
inhaled to the beat of softcore reggae
asking us why
do bad people always live
and good ones just die?
