5207. HATING TO BE A RAM ON MOUNT MORIAH

HATING TO BE A RAM 

ON MOUNT MORIAH

My forces are already marshaled, and everything else

is gone. I only hear the slovenly silence yelling back.

All here is what I stole : 'You were my gym buddy ferreting

along spotty fluorescent ramps...Peach sirens, entryway

orderlies. Mangled disposition stations.' Outside of that,

I knew nothing; but what I was supposed to know from

that? I purposely sharpened my pencil in the hearts of

lonely women  -  divorced, broken in two, lonesome,

keening, fractious, tired, slovenly, lazy, sick. Nothing

else ever seemed so exciting to me. We even  -  you can

remember  -  took that trek three days deep into the

wilderness (three days, three days, all this biblical shit

is always in threes) until we reached the top. I'd always

meant to kill something, and I finally did. (Dance one

fabled evening and hear the skylark do something,

anything at all  -  go ahead, I dare you.)  -  Ever since

that noted day you know nothing's ever been the same.

I'd hate to have been that ram on Mount Moriah.