This is a tiny confessional that I have stepped into: I
have to move my knees in order to speak. My teeth hurt. This
noise hurts my eyes even. This poem is about Che Guevarra, his ex-wife,
and how grave-robbers have pounded his bones into a fine powder,
snorted some, and cooked the rest into a big plate of lime
jello. J, E, L, ...
All the rights of this jello recipe are reserved by the
daily opera-goers of Albania. This is about love,
Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Of course, this is all about the
self-determination, and the general lack of self-confidence,
of my fellow West-Virginians.
This is silly now—where am I going to sleep tonight?
Exactly where does my penis fit into this narrative?
This is where I stop now, and step into the morning
light of December,
fragile and crisp.
© 1992 Daniel X. O'Neil
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