You open me
up, parting the dark damp
spaces, finding pleasure.
You are soft
like Krishna’s petals, celestial and
beloved, fragrant, young.
Birds break the
dawn through joyful song, beckoning
me towards peace.
Cells rapidly replicate
in the guise of healing,
only hastening necrosis.
Gravel roads stretch
long, far and lonely and
I must wander.
The acrid taste is easy to get past
once you accept what will happen
in thirty to forty-five minutes.
Sometimes it feels like chewing on wood,
damp, drying wood,
because this lifeform once fed on decay
but life, the perception of life is its gift.
Sometimes the feelings make one jelly-legged
and anger can tunnel in.
The walls can whistle and hold in time
the movement of people, slow and distorted.
Solitude is my councilor when I
bring the cap to my teeth;
when the night wraps her arms around me.
Light becomes brighter, like halos above my head,
and the wind makes a whisper like
a breath in my ear,
and I laugh.
It is the reconcilation of the soul to the conscious, the
conscious to the consciousness, the rotation
of Earth captured in my motion.
I hold a penitent stance-my hands
clasped in prayer-but I am not
submitting to anyone but myself.
There is no one but me here and
the soft signs of my sleeping soulmate.
I kiss his head and his smell, his hair
becomes more real in this
crossing of the dream world and our own.
I stroke his chest and count the seconds,
loving how the hairs feel like they are
attaching themselves to my nerves.
Solitude beckons as the poison metabolizes;
I must listen to the final message before
the inner voice becomes silent.
Yes, I will listen before the breach closes.
It is not madness, but teaching.
Literature is one of the most interesting and significant expressions of humanity.