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.
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