VI. Up the Hill

I've graduated!—to join the inmates x-ing off!—
their neuroses like calendars—each day degrades—
my roommate—a neuropathic mess—tracks his marks
each evening, a gradual

massage up the forearm—a thousand hot needles:
there's no time like the future—each nerve resides
in its potential numb—a body is a betrayal—

I control the poison—word slush, ragged cough—
I was telling you of telling you—nothing said 
convinces these people—they can't mouth off
& enjoy their degradation. XII. This Cross, No Shield

Mouth like a scraped-out trough—the lunch 
line knots—these aren't people—& erupts—
tap on the back, our leader: your insurance
says the end. I mouth

& what about the outside—(ammo shops
& head shops—driving past & on)...I punch
the air like a face—it remains, grows hot,

I a black spot inside it—I have a hunch—
ready like a baby bird—you can stop 
you—a meeting, a phone call—he touches
his mouth—this isn't the end.