Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1982
Taken in pieces
I people.
Throat hole is a head too
esophagus torso
intestine legs
stack an arm
shelve a self
fix an O in the bone and hold me,
silly void, the mess
head is far above
I'm a piece of work, says the smiling brain,
Is it 1982 already?
Time flies when you're getting
form, when you're spilling
into person-
hood.
Take my brain my blown open
wide-eyed dreaded reddened tear duct
mouth party brain—
I was left like this, blue drop
hangs off my ear
like the top of a hill
drops its curve, a narrow
vacancy my friend
the soul sits waiting to catch.
Little guy in my chest
keep me warm, keep
your flat hand open
for the falling pieces of sky I'm sending
out—sky body
self net, the self not
a construction, not work-in-progress
but always done forming
its happy house of a well-healed head.