A Report Upon the Consumption of Myself

I am a panther shut up and bellowing in
cement walls, and I am angry at blue
evenings without ventilation
and I am angry with you, and it will come
like a rose
it will come like a man walking through fire
it will shine like an unseen trumpet in a trunk
the eyes will smell like sausages
the feet will have small propellers
and I will hold you in Bayonne and
the sailors will smile
my heart like something cut away from
cancer will feel and beat again feel
and beat again—but now
the blue evening is cinched like old
muskets and the dangling sex rope hangs
as the tree stands up and calls:
July. the dust of hope in the bottom of paper cups
along with small spiders that have names like ancient
European cities; spit and dross, heavy wheels;
oilwells stuck between fish and sucking up the grey gas
of love and the palms up on the cliff waving
waving in the warm yellow light
as I walk into a drugstore to buy toothpaste,
rubbers, photographs of frogs, a copy of the latest
Consumer Reports (50 cents) for I consume and
am consumed and would like to know
on this blue evening
just which razorblade it would be best for me
to use, or maybe I could get a station wagon or buy a
stereo or a movie camera, say 8mm, under $55
or an electric frying pan … like the silver head
of some god-thing after they drop the bomb BANG
and the grass gives up and love is a shadow
and love is a fishtail weaving through
threads that seem eyes but are only what’s
left of me on the last blue evening after the bands
have suicided out, the carnival has left town and
they’ve blown up the Y.W.C.A. like a giant balloon and
sent it out to sea full of screaming lovely lonely
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