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The Bread We Eat in Dreams

Page 33

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What I got

is the pure lotuslove

of seeing the first lightspray of detonated creation

even in the busted-up world they sell you.

Seeing in me

as tired and overworked

as old gum

the unbearable passionmouse of infinite

stupid trashcamp joy

and hewing to that.

It’s the riddle of me, baby. I am

everywhere exploited exhibited exhausted

and I am still holy.

It doesn’t matter

what they do to you.

Make you a permanent joke

sell your heart off piece by piece

robber princes

ruin everything

it’s what they do

like a baby cries.

Look at my opposite number.

It was never coyote versus roadrunner.

It was both

against Acme

mail order daemon of death.

Stick with me. Someday

we’ll bundle it all up again

the big blue-luminous ball of everything

your father



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