i like curry

the anger of a thousand bulls
running at one bull fighter in the depths of my mind.
He is draped in the red of poppies
and of blood
exiting his body by way of the pores from which sweat usually departs.
But nothing in this moment
is as it ought to be.

Your fingertips touched that paper you handed me a long time ago, and even then
they left blood on the edge of it
smudging the words to an abstraction
from which my mind filled in the blanks
with stick figures and a number of ideas
inappropriate for this page.

I’ll always feel the anger of those bulls and
my body will never perform correctly
ever again even
when my mind is blissful to wander in the false reality
taken from and by and with the paper
that I keep in the back pocket
of my only pair of pants
from which I hope a stranger on the street
will take it
so to finally be rid of it
may be even more blissful
than this moment.