i have run through the streets, kicking my breasts before me
like two cast-off wheels; i have dyed
my hair from a box,
it is red, like the red scraped under my nails
from fucking your son.
i am kidding of course; i am too busy languishing
in hospital beds or the wet parts
of my mind, and lately the psychiatric wards, Ariel
cutting me a cheap deal. i am fucking the spirit
the metaphor for freedom. the good parts of living
are a sundress against your legs, and you are walking
down a salt-air boardwalk and feel
young, inspired,
you run to your motel room, after, and have iced
coffee and count the pesos left to make it out
of the country. we are put pace
like young gods, chewing slowly around and around
the white flaking pill
& the dormitory window gleams in the shape of all
my leftover and given up dreams; it is red reflecting
the cult-people on my arms, all sliced up and laying
dead, waiting for the archeologists to come discover me
and tell me — how and who i am, and why Pompeii
and its grandfather explosion have taken up hostage in me.
i have run through the streets naked and the cusps
of my body are caught on every
outstretched hand.
the last pavilion 