Monday, March 07, 2016


     Candy will always be booming.
           —Hart Crane’s father in Ron Palmer’s novel Prick Queasy

“Hold my hand, I want to see
right through you,” I thought.

How wrong I was, working no-
thing into the daylight hours.

If my eyes well up while I’m
attempting to breathe, do not

go to hell for your wrongdoings.
You’re an archangel compared

with myself, cousin to the red
guy (the one with the pitch-

fork) hisself.  I’m not just all
about death, though.  I’m the

broken.  I’m all about the
ideal.  You’re that angel who

became, in the end, the little
guy who stands on my left

shoulder, always working the
subversive angle with your

whispers of “Do it! Do it!  Let
everything else go!”  Is that

anything like saying “Make
for yourself the path that’s

all yours!"?  That which is mine. 
“Forget him,” I whisper to the

little guy standing on my
right shoulder, wishing

like hell that I could fol-
low my own advice.  What

an amazing fantasy that
I have imagined (for) my-

self, that path which is
mine; that which is mine.