Impasse
Hasti
Body is a bus stop: thought doctors could lift me
out. Without yearning, I shake. Light so split in absorption.
Little will steered into steering the ship. Not always redemption
in the small things. What twenty-year-old lies in rich dark
for days, trying to sleep through youth? What thirty-year-old
still numbs the tongue, drags? I am ready to renege
on this living-fantasy. I want my own world, with a clear-cut answer
to questions I can’t conceive, mind so weakened
with daily sores: where is the outline, the map of life, the slice
the block the 5D mess. Maybe every violent day
is like this. Grainy, with a knot in the centre. Made of hot
spearing lines. The jeopardy for real. Rat heart
lazy, wet-heavy with empire’s congealed guilt—seven minutes—fourteen—thirty-three—fifty-six—despair
at responding forever. Like sour milk, translucent garlic,
fungus—no reclamation, no beauty, no nobility, no message, the days
add up to what they add up to, day after day after day after STOP