hello local burned out millenium
i don’t like
the way you look like me in the mirror, the way your
indian eyes glow red in the city, the red urban
city coming out of me, when
I sit by
the highway, the cynical parts of the world cut
hard into my thighs and my old-legacy eyes,
given to me by my mother, the mother who
left, who told me that I have the eyes of a fox or
a lizard. like i am not yet human,
even for being wrapped up in her for nine months.
like even that
was not enough to bleed the animal out.
where are you going? they ask. where are
you going? but I only know that I am going around,
like the earth is round, like the wet high-rise of my eyeball
is round: when I spit it into my palms
in the morning,
before brushing my teeth but after cutting out
the old wrist arteries and wiring
new ones inside. i am just like that, not ending,
just existing, the little lighter flame that sputters and sputters
but never starts never
stops:
that is me. there i am.
the last pavilion 