no one but Don DeLillo writes "akimbo" anymore

I listen to the husk around the voice in Underworld
before during and after dark
a deep romantic craggy voice wearing leftover ethnicity
transparent to the eyesight
and the words are sandpaper
the friction of these sounds against the atmosphere
turn irresistible and then repeat themselves

how does the psyche take in panoramic views
without leaving small mountains of dust
in twisted limbs
how does masculinity survive inherent opposition
beneath deceptive skin

the rainbow stays platonic never quite achieving
status of the flesh
and flesh just like a baseball needing periodic
injections of its own importance
starts to fail and keeps descending
without uplift of the language
without reverence that comes of crazymaking
and inflationary talk