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| painting by Adam McLean |
the
purgatory of worms in plastic masks
what
if everything you thought was real
was
just the dreams you exit stage left with
your
past life entry denied
try
the key pad again sir
the
voice over the intercom says
do
you need a winged escort
or
have you remembered your way past sulfur
back
into your shell locked humanity
back toward the
dying breed
of your desire for a graceful leave
you try to unwind
the ranted nautilus of your life
amid
the cacophonous quiet
that
we earmark as a sanctuary
so
when you get here
we always try to sell you
the benefits of mankind's
spa mistreatment centers
we’re
so sure to find
enough
wrong with you
that you end up
begging for the benefits
of
softly applied technical stupidity
you
buy more of this
more than
enough soothing wraps
and
reclaimed mud
from
the heavy metal dredges
and crushed maple leaves
and orange
bleed we steal
from
the gray skies of Autumn
it
is so aromatherapeutic
we tell you
to
lean into the smells
outside
the gated Sun
where
you become one
with
the dark damp fertilized
death
to come
every Halloween
you
swear this is the year
you
are going to
make
it to Heaven
that
this is the year
that
you break through
the
tides of glass
that
this is the year
you’ll
at least get to see
the
great pumpkin
is
as hollow
as
you have become
spitting seeds and fire
into a night
more than willing
to take from you
what still burns
with life
EJR
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