My head is more than
full .. is more than full
of the most awkward
fruits. The ones from
lands too far away to
even imagine when
these gem-colored
fruits have come
such a distance
just to lodge
themselves
inside of a
skull that
mathem-
atically
cannot
even con-
fine such
a single
misshaped
eccentricity,
even if it were
otherwise a dry
and empty shell,
housed within a
container that,
long after I
am no longer
one with its
physicality,
will appear
perhaps right
here, as if a
moth-eaten
rag of a mask
that would
not cover
but a much
tinier head
than the
one it does
now, drops
like a man
in a suit
from the
top floor
of a sky-
scraper,
in dizzy,
slow-mo-
tion ex-
haustion,
until its
puffed
chin
sound-
lessly
stops
in the
middle
of my
chest,
jarring
what’s
inside
my head
such that
an uncomf-
ortable cur-
rent gives
my spine
a hyper-
spastic
jumble
that
climbs
like a
rolling
quake
up my
back
but
just
to
edu-
cate
my skull
full of awk-
ward fruit
about con-
finement and
incarceration;
of min-
imal
rights
and
slavery.
And they
(my skull;
its con-
tents)
in turn
force up-
on me the
keenest
most fer-
ocious
percep-
tion, an un-
derstand-
ing of the
universe
and its
collect-
ive mig-
raine.
All this
tran-
spires
here ..
in my
solitary
home ..
which,
appro-
priately
enough,
is about
the size
of a
common
coffin.
