drives me out to my fingertips
and feet to live gutlessly
by touch and taking. I press
my hands on anything to keep
nerve fires alive on the outskirts of
my bad neighborhood heart. I
empty pleasures into other skins,
fluoresce along electric spines
and ride the spin of rooms
adrift in foamy wash of spirits,
slip through bends of typeset notes
on truth and fictions
overstating certainty in black.
But dark is fear of not seeing
what roams about in here.
They say my empty
is only God-need.
But it’s God threw everything
of use out, put up fences, and now
there’s a mad devil at my center
rattling the ribcage
that keeps me out.
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