Do you have the patience to escape to Nirvana?

Knuckle fly, hairy, you fly to
my left hand first,
middle finger fascinated
like everyone else and their sex fearing mother in law and
you land, sedated and starved for rock
      (or cow’s shit and rusted bodies)
and surface and God and a place
to rest your head and heart.

I urge, drunk, high school like and
aggravated by a lack of ass and cogent thought,
forearms tense eyes sharpened at you, but
I remember in all lessons,
      (Jesuit or otherwise)
observing nature’s course bears a fruit of
glorious young breasts, galloping
dead center past eternity’s rearview.

I stop and sit at the light, stuck in the atmosphere
and the radio clicks for a second,
and I can’t wait forever, really
so I clap and kill you to the ground
      (piled bones and communion wine)
back to where you always belonged
where I and he and she and we
will hunt with the flies who hunt the dead,
rear-windowless without a pedestrian in sight.

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