Friday, June 8, 2007

Of Self

No Miracles
by J'Sun Howard

an alabaster chrysanthemum obscenely painted
impressionistically against a fuchsia sky,
osculating the moon,
assuring him your love but crying all night long,
and dreaming of becoming god,
clouds migrating and stomping like brontosaurs,
flightless birds, flightless angels
attempting magic
after seeing their own deaths-
seeing your own death,
transmigrating into ghosthood,
walking in the rain because you had no umbrella
and the lightning erupting like god's spies
made you flinch — its eeriness,
somewhere close two consternating feminine male voices are arguing
the purpose and agenda of intimacy,
forgetting to lock the door behind you,
forging your signature on his skin
but squeezing a pillow between your thighs
and waking alone,
more incessant dreaming of becoming god,
morning burping up unicorns
bright as Baroque chandeliers,
and all this forfeiting of self,
are no miracles.


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