A.J. in the Grips of the Spirit Named A.J.
Not that the sink can wash away the wine.
Not that the wind must reek of whatever
stink the leaves leave with it, but still this door
leaves in me a sort of half-division
so that I and I must find the bus in
this condition, walk side by side until
we coincide beneath some distant stillness
of the air. Half like a noose around
myself, I twist and twist like some insane
man to sidle-step, squeeze-slip me past
me. But, just recent, I and I have reached
an increment of agreement: to not
be paralyzed, to move, to work, to eat ––
to exorcise ourselves of me, buried
in I as I am. Done now is the past
where I would take over, where I had run
myself away from the human encounter ––
where I’m ill-at-ease, old, idiot ––
Can’t trust me. But I’ll keep that to myself.
I can’t forgive myself, but, won’t matter
none with just some time, though for now we live
through the continued choice to be alive.
Arrive, bus, arrive. Arrive, bus, arrive.
Please come before both I and I will turn
around, call in sick, call out sick to one
another, call each other sick, then pick
at one another’s eyes till something sticks . . .
Please come, so I can I climb aboard!
I will hello the driver. Walk, sit, and be.
Across from some woman. Will see her rings.
Her emerald shirt will be an emerald shirt.