I am not my body

my body is not me.

I am not my body

my body is not free.

spirit

self

soul

                                                                        it has come down to words

                                                                        these days.  i’m fine

                                                                        celebrating the miracle

                                                                        of each one.

What the stuttering microphone

wants to say: anything goes.

Someone better check

its disconnected cord.

The bridges are lit and strung

out below this tight-sealed

cabin of recycled air.  Listen

as the flickering noise

yields a map, the bones

of an imposed song.

There is a statue of

Abraham Lincoln at

East Orange City Hall.

He is in a trench coat

holding his hat

by his knee.

The Mental Health

Association building

looks like a disease,

the perfect place

to off yourself.