Outside, I see the morning crawl
in a customary scrawl across my window.
Inside, I feel a particular calm,
as if the jaded sun, somehow,
slipped under the cover of the clouds
that seemed determined to create an occlusion,
and fell into my arms; only to set
alight my fingers treading on the
keyboard, whereupon the poem
becomes apparent. It (the poem) is not
the ghost, but the ghost I am, in a ventriloquism
the world speaks no sooner. So, can I hide, if
to hide the truth is to bestow on
either of us (the truth and me) an ephemerality
as if it must conclude in a lie, that should apply
to every liar, every faggotty maggot that lives
to opportunise on the availability of veracity.
I am media-bound to deceive my own honesty;
if defeat can bring victory. Do I emblazon the sky
like a spurious sundance kid or a starwaltz kid,
be that the admonishment of all you unscrupulous, who
seek to unfairly capitalise; while I
am only threadbare looking for the
absent jasmines present themselves
silently in my hoodwinkingly truthful soul!
