After Jean-Michel Basquiat
Blue, what could be sky
unknotted—bluer even
than a lake shuffling
into the lungs,
and the lungs forgetful
of self, a blackness
that tars every inch
of inside. Therefore,
my inside is mysterious.
My wings want to blossom
and ask: Am I still wings?
There are mammals
that can’t be named.
A violence. A sex
without erection.
Eventually, I’m without
closure—transparent.
Anything can fit:
a heart, a bird, a second penis.
There is a mouth
I call mine but given
to the wind: red
how blood is red
when it frees itself
from the I. Today,
the I is master: a horse
with wings that pearl
when the blue sky lathers
and the horse emerges
through the clouds,
the clouds sifting
the faint hairs like waves
before the horse
collapses against the shore,
tired from being horse,
howling—the legs howling—
Amputate me.
Yet, I am no horse.
My eyes sink
into the skull
behind the jelled sphere
like a snail vanishing
beneath the sand.
Look at all my colors.
What my body takes.
The sun crystallizing me
into a fossil.