Knocking on the walls of my coma,
she shatters silence; stilettos
self;suicides to walk righteous.
I maintain her distance from my dream.
Flat backed on grass I taste soma.
Life liquids past her voice vibratos
through the shell. I swallow pious-
vibrant-nature's transient scream.
In that 1940's sunset film,
the fire blond hairs on her leg at 6:33 p.m.
are too quiet and soft for shaving
seconds of sound from the ducks souped
into a row like soldiers marching single-file
(-d away under "M" for Manhattan Project),
then easing their way into evening
in a Marx Brothers' exit with the emphasis
on crazy mutated dwarf names
so a robust busted America won't think fascism
but bust-up happy Harpo and less Groucho grouchy instead.
Yearning for that self-satisfied
bitchy look found only on a stewardess' face.
Itchy for the air-rarified,
mingling excitement with the jet exhaust.
Burning with the power to fill a suitcase,
bringing all the things I have not lost
(knowing that's not too much).
Dying to walk a new city's street-
paved with stones I have not worn.
Slaved far too long incomplete,
scheming for a day I cannot make come.
Crying for the children never born.
Dreaming of the day when I will not run
(knowing I ask too much).