Poem. Smallest Pebble.

There is nothing rosy about this
some beautiful Blanchard spoof
with dusky oils and pastels and far-off
faces with far-off eyes appropriate the way
far-off looks are supposed to paint it: longing

C’mon. That’s my eyes rolling.
Take a puff knock it down don’t forget
muthfkr to pass. I will garden the soils
great with rain, the wetness will spill out
my legs. Alloy. It will smell like metal
cuz all things do, unwashed. Purity
that doesn’t look it always is labeled
pain. Elemental
where it all goes
& where it all starts
& ends again. So what baby
I aint got time for this Now what?
I aint tryin to hear that shit
Closer to this is the cure. Where the ground
smells like metal it takes like fangs, there is
bone there, calcium, which is part mortar.
Mix it up a little with your own bag of salt.
It smells rotten it always should, it always
will. In the sex light the afternoon burns
orange shades of palsy that even the lungs
cant destroy. Even the uterus and wilted sac
can’t maim it instead hang holy like ornaments
decorative after emaciated calling. Little bells with
sanctified Christmas songs inside the machine.
Yell it out, hear? Stop, don’t stop! Start the
radio going again play that good old shit,
move your ass to the music you got down once
don’t forget you can, again