Untitled Poem Vii

I have not ceased— I have not. The things of the past Do not rot, do not decay, But I have not ceased— I have not. Once the pitchfork's prongs Did so deafeningly twang, I shriveled and cowered, And found myself prancing With the headless chickens. Beneath the naysayer's feet Are six cockroaches: One for good luck, One to ward spirits, One to find holy favor, One to initiate a curse, One for venting, One for simple disgust; And the massacre was denied. I stopped, Trapped in translation, A transparent body in an opaque cage; Bleeding profusely on a sterilized table, Compromising the hygiene of this place And questioning my helpless wounds. Please, where is the salt? The bitterness to cleanse me? Pain before numbness before death? He blinded me with a sound, With the violent beat of drums The size of islands, Jarring my excitable pupils Forever. Who is she? Then came a day of mourning: On the morning of a day Of mourning Of a day, Lost. Belief is philosophy. An idea was conceived, Was found to be nonsensical, And standardization transformed Into an inert totalitarianism, But who are we to rebelliously be The pompous leaders of nonconformity? We write poems That influence books That influence manifestos That influence wars That influence consciences That influence bodies That influence wars That influence wars And wars And wars And dullness And brokenness. Why do we detest exhibitionism But complain about kept secrets? When the first snowflake fell, She was a star of beauty, And lauded by many, For she was unique and unmatchable. The Satan cursed his creation For being whiter than the pure, And she melted, never to return. And then she said, "Hell spoke to me to say, "'My little girl, come hither,' "And I went and was felt "For insecurities, "And they were removed from me. "I was like the waterfalls "And tingly with bees beneath my skin."