I Am After All Human

I shave my own hair. I cut it and remember My own private holocaust. Those things the imagination plays with. Little toys of horror, lingering in that skull I clean. The blade runs close to the flesh and control of it is mercy. Anna had a beating heart, going for a cyanide shower. Mine is built like a furnace with bricks. Cold hard brick that can withstand the heat of hell. Poetry affords me my temporal descent into tenderness. Ah,feelings,vulnerability,flesh, blood dripping from my scalp. I am crying tonight over a Rilke poem. My wife also cries with me. I am after all human.