poem: comet

this desert is worse than the others: yelow harlot,
or during the brightest points of the afternoon a reminder of
the infinite she last felt at twenty-two, or like a mouse
carcass and the dwelling people with their
vulture eyes: here is the truth of out-here America, pure
moral rot. and yet I would like to take out over — always the same —
oblivion as earth versus oblivion as body-horror pregnancy.
The disembodied body wins but the head registers and
records. Throughout the day brief stabbing thoughts that I
should regret come up and I am in a convex, a shining wave, to keep
them at rest and down: in that closet, the realization that I cannot live
among men. I would like to drive up forty-eight hours alone and see
the pine forest and walk through it alone and feel the great heat-stricken
security of myself, there: the more you pull
your brain out and yank it to the grindstone the less infinite space
for neuroticism, this is the secret. Hestia in the desert for
almost four years now — unlucky count, 사, death. The desert comes in
white hot waves but I will dream of myself as a comet and I go,
pull into the string of the land as it winds northward and then collapses in
on my waiting face saying daughter not yet. All of
Christiandom says submit. And the bright throbbing thoughts that go
in easily charted patterns say I should be strung up and they are right,
purgatory-place around us shutters on, you must pull yourself up
by your teeth.