Mantra: I Will Create As I Speak
Seventh,
In the taxi,
The driver's arms fan out
like a praying mantis, ready
for the kill. Old thin arms.
In the backseat:
the prey.
Seventh,
Today is mist.
Dark blue buildings grow high.
But disappear into the sky.
Their heavy secrets swim,
incognito,
in me.
Seventh:
I wear layers
And I was born ready
To show off a crop top cover
Over my thin pale skin.
Freakshow for fans;
I'm me.
Seventh:
I'm the killer,
Killing time with poems.
Just like Salem hangs its witches.
I wait for my trial
My justice served
Too cold.
Seventh
And it could be
Eight or ninth after me.
Life lived, waiting on a park bench.
Tall, slender ghosts and I
Moan across time:
Judgment.
Seventh:
White picket fence
Limit my lime green grass
Of home. I await my return,
Spiritual,
Cosmic.
Seventh
This is my last
True American line.
Dear Boston, please don't rain for me.
Grow your Fenway leaves and
Kenmore brick tiles,
I'm gone.
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