even William Styron can't/won't touch me (p)

~
up with the dark and the fugitive stars 
hanging over the rural landscape, 
I'm young/old enough to know insomnia 
like a second body-language, knowledge 
as firm and ubiquitous 

as the disparate cars' headlights 
running down the county road. 

I've been walking, walking, walking 
miles every day about a week, now, 
and my body's missing the stuff 
to keep my eyes closed, I'm like 
an elephant or an insect in search of 
fingers or a god who wants my prayers. 

listen to smoke, to neon print 
on electric-signs, listen to the friendly 
pain in your gut walking on the traintracks,
it's slender paws owing nothing to no one 
if you know this resignation without 
hints or second-chances. 

yeah...when the juice runs clear out 
of all the people around me I'll be 
like that character whose name I 
can't remember in Set This House On Fire, 
survivor of various motorcycle crashes, 
that kid who'll bury us all. 




****

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