Serenity in Lapses of Fugue

[jsherri]

Spiked on leather seat, my leg blackened with grease,
Monkey on my back, with no identity,
The wheels turning, soundless but for vim,
Excited rolling down Midwood, Highway of Kings.

5,000 turns I counted till the bridge silver,
but then copper in the distance, which I hated,
it's beauty manufactured for deception,
I know what hides behind the facade.

There's a sign on the wires telling me,
in lime green on tangerine cursive script,
about dying for love, another in white on,
emerald about a son killed by cosmic reaction.

There's a scratch in the arm of the man holding,
a camera, alive in the wind, hair pierced with the,
mood of the city, the clanks of the ferry and the stink,
of fish rotting, his eyes tearing, my leg blistering in tandem.

Wheel turns 5,084 counted, laid out in dashes, zigzags,
ricochets up, over, around, bumps and grinds in that I,
fly down the promenade into the street, finding my,
monkey holding tight, I curse him and pinch his cheek.

I'm sorry whispered then shouted at the sideswiped yellow,
geek who found my leg too close to his bike I smile,
feeling more like punching him, in the air getting,
danker it's pothole after pothole let me sink.

Wherever I am going let it happen now, pedestrians,
move, chaos is chasing my shadow, my shadow creased,
with sweat, my sweat narrowed into a trickle evaporated,
as soon as my destination is reached. It is reached.

We gather now don't we, childish adults in solemn rooms,
voicing 5 minute spurt memories of poisoned love,
innocence damaged and forgiveness never. We bare,
our necks for the kill, rendering the soul vulnerable.

Protocol, darkness. Self-examination, the creed. Floundering, familiar,
We bask in the scents of sweat of each other. I see tell-tale grease,
blotches on shoes and cloth. We toe away at the marks grinding ,
them into plastic tiles. Fingers sweep through tears.

Mark me and my monkey for we are addicts of drama,
the foretellers of defeatism, screaming terror in the night.
Call it. Speak it. You know it. It's nameable so name it.
Rotten woman, see? Daddiless, see? Abused child, see?

Easy. And I will claim you as my witness. My partner in pain.
You I will dub sadistic. A fool twice over. A botched job.
But will not say it to your face. Protocol. Laws. Steps.
Come let us gather in circle. Monkeys and men and God.

[Gene van Troyer]

I quite liked this. At the moment, the biggest difficulty I encountered was your curious use of commas:

about dying for love, another in white on,
emerald about a son killed by cosmic reaction.

There's a scratch in the arm of the man holding,
a camera, alive in the wind, hair pierced with the,
mood of the city,

We toe away at the marks grinding,
them into plastic tiles.

I see what you're doing with the commas throughout the poem, using them to create a spinning sense of fugue state, and for the most part it works well for me. However, in the above quoted lines they seriously tripped me up and I found myself thinking they could stand to be placed elsewhere with better effect.