of margins.
This i am to accept
as a mental illness.
Emotional idleness,
chop, chop, shock,
shock, shock goes
the block blocking
air, sex, dialogue,
shopping, dresses,
worship, meaning
not much for God
of sex or repose,
empty strummed
guitars that loved
my body only, my
wretched body
when it was young
and when my spirit
had not the slightest
impression on your heart
you do have. You have a heart.
This is the tragedy, Provider.
Mine is gone, I am to accept it
as a mental illness that keeps me ugly,
so very ugly to remain tied to my cowardice
of age, believing the illness may be all there is
for anyone.