No Bio b-s, not for me, just blow-hard pride, dull facts that mask thin poetry -Jay Chollick Madman Speaking New storms up there—thunder in the head—bravado-brained, it bursts! and with such force, that I, with terrifying hands, now coddle meteors! Will myself cruciferous. And briny dazzled, turn sudden clam! owning, as if born into it, its Morbid juice. I will—I must! toward foreign ecstasy, creep newly born—or eel-like, twist; work heavy human into it, find glass and there somehow, re-silver Youth and touch in mirrored memory the acned boy; slim blush and fumbled sexuality—to be ingenious! To throw off cells, leap leaping from oneself, pop-eyed and singing madrigals!—to be another’s bloodline, flowing Smooth. But pity—all these flame-lit possibilities, seem repugnant now, they bring me, tugging madness, to the sharpest edge I feel Unhinged. This brain has rust corroded lobes, they make me thrash; or glued to stodgy platforms, make me sit; watch fireflies; the deep bending of a continent, the twilit haze—but not, full-flood organic, to partake of them, to simply Sit; grow thin, dry husked, and papery—to lose the wing; the latitude; the infinity of lines. And who denied their liquid fingers, touches light? This sanity is Too sad for me. I’d rather say—come here magnificence! you be gardenia; and I, turning leather—oxford or anklestrap, I’m someone’s Shoe
