The Art of Escape

Do you still wonder now that you’ve been washed out into fate’s unforgiving seas why you were sentenced to a life you swore was in the wrong body? Living in the wrong body is a natural crime The price To live with a heart pressed against The third rail. This is caring too much for Anyone who sends all your true loves reeling Into the winter of the wards where each morning sets off tiny detonators causing explosions Of your fit And fury Casting off the last burning ambers Of your brilliant hatred Where you swore you no longer would play The role of the fool following a loser’s dream. You should have built a dividing wall Of pills Between your east and west Between the morning that owns us all And the movie The one in your head Where you were always going to cast yourself In a supporting role. After all Your life was never your own. It belonged to the demons Born of desperation’s final curse. You should have realized that we all Have the plans of dull and frightened apes Who live with debt of drudgery of carrying a name of the cheated Like a cross down Willis Avenue. We have never truly left the lonely forest Hunting for coffee and music while believing there is a home beyond those gray seas of your plans beyond the music beyond your name which you successfully stripped away at last and the cats who still wait for you at Jeannine’s. Did you really think That all that was going to be left behind Was consolatory confinement Where white roses bloom in the garden At your feet? In the Orient White is the color of death After all. Was your plans of escape To sink into this ocean’s Desperate floors Or be carried away To nowhere at all? For these waters Will never carry you back home Now that you made sure That your escape was not Left to chance. For here there are no shores Or docks Or port cities with their rat eat rat spirit Or disjointed legal apparatuses which always points towards punishment of The sleepless Only, The eternal dream of Paris With someone you loved, And with no need for a passport At all. Even Ulysses grew tired of being out to sea Where all rumors Became ghosts of what Once Was. And once you’ve been gone for far too long Then all old lovers will cease looking for You From over the horizon Sooner Or later. You should have realized We are all beginners in the game of the cheated Its, After all the loser’s dance In an effort to finding the right Step to navigate through the latest undertow. 2 My own confession I wish there was life that far out Then perhaps you could reach me by phone. Never collect. Could you imagine the bill? Still AT&T would send a collector to settle that debt. Maybe you could send a letter Or smoke signals.