Through the apple maggot quarantine regions

How are things on the other side of legitimacy, self?
I saw you floating (third person mosaic) on the highway
through the apple-maggot-quarantine regions, or just
sauntering across the back of your hand.

How were things when (completely in the moment)
you screamed fuck fuck fuck fuck at the top of your
lungs as though words (not uncommon in poetry) could
erase the action proceeding like the prologue of a play
you've written, enacted, retracted, stared on Broadway,
slept with the director, and watched flop into obscurity.

How are things
in the moment
self?

How was it when slightly suicidal you thought to end
it all in one smooth finally? One more twist of the road
and then you could melt away like the coming of
heat. Birth yourself into sweeter-still oblivion.

Become free
of forethought?

Free of guilt.

How were things when you said that you were in love
with the sky? That same sky dead as your shoes wove
a tale of sound into the cold breaking of the dusk.

How were things before you knew the edge of
self reliance? After defiance of youth? When you
were smarter being younger, though dumber
now that you're older.

How did you survive self?

Screaming
at the top of
your lungs like that?