A CRY OF IMPROVISATION WITH A POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS
In a bus station bathroom, scribbled
initials trigger—
Piano Trumpet Sax Drums
Peyote Trazadone Sinsemilla Demerol
—kisses on my nipple
or a needle’s pulse through my arm—
but if—for religious reasons—I lick
my fingers do I taste the assault or
the grain you pearl into a luminous shell?
What else deigns to color a domain
in the hippocampus or paper over
a toilet’s oval until I tongue a girl named
Apophenia like a Percocet and perhaps
my documentary is also soundtracked
by plunging syringes or trigger clicks
but right now the score reflexes startle
these terror tremors waiting on a bus.
Even as sum of what’s been done to me
the unified self is a useful fiction.
Do you recall—
Piccolo Tambourine Synth Duduk
Pulse Tremor Seizure Dementia
—when busses just meant kisses
when fingers didn’t trigger unasked touch
or arrive as an evening express to shame
where the Speaker desires to disembark
or blow smoke into a parallel reality
where our sages are more than mere apes
with a vocabulary & a rational capacity?
Why must the four cords of these memories
extend or bend into an encore by
the band Cycling Back To The Seen,
who often have lyrics about night sweats
but never arrive before the bus hits us?
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