I Am Thy Father’s Spirit
Boiling in his own traitorous soil, but easily forgotten.
Like the armor of the mythopoetic – idle tide of umber.
So thirsty he drank his own urine. So reliant he walked
the ten miles to school. He removed his own kidney,
selling it on E-bay. But whom, he says, is he to say
his life was hard? If bones from the prison houses
don’t punish. The words that rank with a nebulous
aura, so like the hairs of a sea’s rageful howl. List, list,
O list! List coriaceous in its orange, codpiece of burn-
ing moss, both wetter than jaundice but dryer. Gases
of a most strange, foul, and unnatural resource. Byron
credits India’s dollar a day. Same shit, same price,
the cellular saris which enrapture this fear. Tingling
comes. Ghosts do not exist, except in the movies.
Author Discusses Poems