After great pain, a formal feeling comes — Emily Dickinson
I am eager to empty these coffee cups.
I am a car, broken down, near the bluffs of L.A.
I am a god, walking in the nakedness of a mechanic.
I am the breasts that fill the bra of this tired waitress.
I am the scars that flag my back, like dried up riverbeds in a darkened desert.
I am the desert.
And we are sitting here. Tapping our spoons on empty plates. Pinching sugar
packets between fingers, the grains lost in our calloused palms. Looking for a fiery
accelerant to bang us, rocket-like towards newer celestial neighborhoods. We, the foreigners
plopping down next door. They don’t want us, they won’t have us.
I am the crucifix hanging from the mirror, clashing against the faux pine paneled dashboard.
I am the tender sway of silence, flipping men on their heads, asses to the sky.
I am that bracing moment when all beliefs break away. And I am eager.