I’m the white sweater pal,
the man who can relate.
I let go of my robe
and lie down on the shore.
I get distracted,
I cry over spilt ocean,
Masai tribesmen drink my cow blood…
it’s the television-self years from now
arousing me from the adoring cinema

I wipe the shadow up across my cheek,
smooth my breast
and surprise vigilante hands
activating force-fur mantle,
bathroom mirror indictment
voltage burrowing wires through my lids.

copyright,  © 1989, 2007 Chris Desjardins pka Chris D.

composed circa 1976-77; originally published in DOUBLE SNAKE BOURBON  

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