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.
