Our Mutual Mission
Violence is a pithy contribution to the color in my vowels—
big band music gives me an urge to split the atom.
Penitentially I float down a river of New York minutiae,
restoring the city's faith in me. Out of the toxic hunger
for a performable psychodrama erupts
a fountain of missed connections, fragments of fate.
These are what decide the rate of death's progress
toward the gape of a raw mouth. More suspect, though,
is the idea that this will complete our mission, our sleeping
through the alarm that, once set, cannot be disarmed
except by consent of an imaginary author falling to earth
by way of Zeno's parachute, forever on the verge of opening . . .