A laborious wakefulness or was it a most unapologetic whistling in the ear

I lack full, clear proof of his skin a drum.

Have I always been under-sided, a quandary’s

viscous lowered aura, for example there is the fact

I’m inclined to disbelieve the violent vapours

of black bile, a stab, a treason mounted. Am I

really seeking to assure the delegates assembled

in the cerebella what lies beyond the shadow

of the doubled shout. On Radio However—

whose throat I hesitate to sit by the fire attired

in a brocaded dressing gown: day, un-arisen day.

About which writhing dream do I curl. Pretend

you’re on Zeus, on Coltrane – yes, they are aural

truths and no, I do hesitate to hear the rusting killer

roses arriving. A key in, is a big reverse decay horse.

A killer is: spattered your life a dirt viola. Is there

a core ambiguity to the small un-armoured hand

bobbing near the beach. Your pen say, “On na floor

is da pride era. On lil’ roommate day whom can we

know?” What proves the head is not of a resilient

earthenware. Even me, in-country, on panting,

I’m unsure who or what delimits the third shift from

to sky to sky to sky. I’m inclined to disbelieve

the three-phased gesture of “complete” reading. Yo’,

send a bad onion, lacking glory, a day-glow hum and O

am I truly in a Potawatomi state of mind. Do I believe

in the will as hinge or tinged trilling. I am in doubt

about, “So be it, traveler,” undecided as to whether

pumpkin could be the initial building block. Quantities

sell. For example there is the fact that I am here.

“A laborious wakefulness or was it a most unapologetic whistling in the ear” was first published in Boston Review.