some old "inky" from france

In the inky crux of my body, I left the place that was all else but mine and spat choking on type-written words, tricking by stuffing, facing by ignoring, to try to transcend

wanting. Him, feathered after the war, singed burning for hopelessness on the outside of the island, fainting the Man, his clean, aesthetic needs for neat, smart streets and owning the fattest, pink cow in dreamy pastures

wanting me eating cow cheese and milk—enormous—suspended in districts sharp with sharp trashcans, green like the Jaguar that got them to the flat, securely affording foie gras bought by au pairs with blank checks while they are robbed of two euro coins, poor

wanting sly marks in sly circles oozing hate from talking heads making mercy, making sacrifice for unwrapped, dirt-colored other heads who meet in staunch basements to dance and find mediums between identities amid sheets of prophets and blood

wanting me inside the city but outside the news, with ciders and wines of glory, thrusting my head out of metro line six to see an offering of the sunrise on tracks to the abbey submerged in packed sand, on an order to see, because I have the dough to see

wanting mind-inventions and misconceptions and futile wonderings of woman kissed kept nestled against my box cat who were never there or found so I painted smudged scenes with sad satire, synsthesia sexy, stark bald somethings to pass the time instead, because I have the dough to pass the time

wanting to shed and fuck the scheme interpolated in me by the Freudian capitalists that want tits and pussy to mean expansion and imported cigar smoke at heartless, slick conference tables they can see their nose hairs in, while the dough renders sharp and prickly in my back pocket

wanting it not to matter, but I won’t give it away, never will I get it away, to the shivering, lovely Israeli man squatting in the metro stop I blink eyes with, sorry, not sorry enough to take the minute to give the change because I don’t have time and the dough is stuck in my back pocket by me, but I’ll blame the scheme of the Freudian capitalists to have and build and be happy.

But the lovely Israeli man is shit lodged in the sole of the shoe and doesn’t have any, and neither does the Arab woman without a toilet or an oven or a breast, so she sells her mastectomy to the tourists because how else is she to survive, while the rags of a man in the Portuguese pension spew and yack words in his language that I don’t understand, maybe begging, too, or telling me the meaning of life, but I wouldn’t know it because I don’t know his language

wanting art for arts sake for the murdered God in the smog that raped the stars instead of the dough, while Bob Marley moans jams smoked in reggae tones selling tee-shirts everywhere from Hell (hope the moral) or I think heaven, to burn pollution tonight, burn illusion tonight

wanting to go up high with him and melt into the madness and cynicism feigning Beckett’s language tweaked to show the void presupposed by history that is life, weeping for it even though my tears were dried up long ago to be outfitted in armor for the affliction of my mother and my grandmothers and him that fucks me

wanting stars fixed in time tonight to be hope, as Yeats wrote in poems entrenched in battle, cracking necks out at angles to see them, faithfully confessing what one needs and dreams to get through the tea-soaked pages to The End alive, if you are lucky

wanting saxophones and smooth ivory keys to tell stories elucidating human idiosyncrasy, passion, dying for one more blow of clean sounding air and one more key hit, while dipping my heart in the ink, suffocating in pieces of papers of blood-black words until I die beneath a gathering of stones, wanting to give Him a name and call Him God.