THROWING ONESELF IN
FRONT OF A BUS
Not that there's any attraction to that,
mind you; I'd rather a train. Quite
more likely. But, really, what's to
leave behind anyway but a splat.
A grease mark, part of yellowed
brine, part of blood and oil? These
may be eternal questions in some
mad rest-home of the mind, but here
for the present present, or for the
now of now, everything tangential
becomes a debating point. I want
to look off, far off, from any of
these chattering things.
-
Not so pleasant, these marks of Cain?
Whatever they were, I've made them
plural because I surely have plenty.
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