What is my life?
Is it these words that fall
Resignedly on the page
As I drill them out of my
Ancestral misery?
Or is it what happens
After I organize them
Into this garrison
A platoon of meaning
That can so easily
Come to attention?
And what if? Meaning
Comes later after the
Platoon is discovered and
Blown up to smithereens
Of fragmented fonts
And fractured ferocity
And it is a parachute
To graze the peaks of
Visibility and comprehension
And land in the middle
Of a sentence without
A period?
It is the comma and the the
And the spaces around them
And the mountain peaks
That unveil the sun
For me at curtain time
Even as I spit this print
Like broken teeth
And blood



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