Let Us Sample Protection Together Poem by Anselm Berrigan

When I was little I cut off the heads
of many lords. I can't count on the energy
that took to rise in me at will, but I've
strengthened my ability to make a
stand-firm surface. A steady gaze will drive
conflicted information away, back to the
abyss from whence it came, but I'll be right
here the morning after, wracked in a
private shame too awful to admit and
of no consequence at all. I work very hard
not to let myself go. Any channel
can tell. Due process appears in beauty
and misgiving at once; an agility
borne from creative malice, a benign
insecurity. The plain truth: I forget
the curtains are open sometimes and the
hands wander. The room stares back from its things:
They understand the end of the world, will
not waste time feeling your pain, and every-
thing tragic in between need not be known.
I don't want love or remorse to follow
I want them in the way, things to burst through
corollaries to be roped and tackled
by surprise, get killed, and thank you. One fate
transforms into another, but I won't
touch that bandaged story. I won't belong
to this scripted conversation, though I
may play along. Identity theft accepting
renewal orders, copycat pre-emptive attacks
an obscure murder string on the public
glide by sight, the victim a John doughnut
pining for leadership from the passenger seat.
The threat of meaning reassures: I know
it's being made for me. Am I supposed
to believe we're receiving information?
Can I defect back to curiosity
in the moonlight, stone rabbit? Hit on by
Echo, I go cold for the love of my
own exile, and while I hope, my flesh
explodes into an arrangement of stars
pestered by darkness. Those aren't birds you
hear, just their corresponding holes in the sky.
All the bottled water isn't fooling anyone.