No Bio b-s, not for me,
just blow-hard pride, dull facts
that mask thin poetry

-Jay Chollick

Madman Speaking

New storms up there—thunder
in the head—bravado-brained, it bursts!
and with
such force, that I, with terrifying hands, now coddle
meteors! Will myself
cruciferous. And briny dazzled, turn sudden
clam! owning, as if born into it, its
Morbid juice. I will—I must! toward
foreign ecstasy, creep newly born—or
eel-like, twist; work heavy human
into it, find glass and there somehow, re-silver
and touch in mirrored memory
the acned boy; slim blush and fumbled
sexuality—to be ingenious! To throw off cells,
leap leaping from oneself, pop-eyed
and singing madrigals!—to be another’s
bloodline, flowing
Smooth. But pity—all these flame-lit
possibilities, seem repugnant
now, they bring me, tugging madness,
to the
sharpest edge I feel
Unhinged. This brain has rust corroded
lobes, they make me thrash; or glued
to stodgy platforms, make me sit; watch
fireflies; the deep bending
of a continent, the twilit haze—but not,
full-flood organic, to partake
of them, to simply
Sit; grow thin, dry husked, and papery—to lose
the wing; the latitude; the infinity
of lines. And who
denied their liquid fingers, touches
light? This sanity is
Too sad for me. I’d rather say—come here
magnificence! you be
gardenia; and I, turning leather—oxford
or anklestrap, I’m someone’s