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| illustration by Maxfield Parrish |
why have antlers
last night
I was in one of those
subtle mist shroud lunacies
the thinnest edge
of reason I could steal
into
the skies were on fire
the trees were begging
baying at the low slung clouds
we recorded every name
the wind knew to write by dig
light amber opaque hard syllabic sounds
and the words that say
take your skins off
toss them in
rumpled cities
at the end
of some imaginary bed
the gloaming presents itself as
shadow Christmas wants Easter
light flicker pause left right control,
no control, out of control, contorting
veering the people who steer clear
they perceive crazy dangerous
consider these miniature epics
mania of escapism
wet clay motions
getting dizzy spinning rain
centrifugal fiction
marking the diction
between a soul’s density
and what is not immutable
what might not belong
becomes a prayer
of keeping
beg the goddess
I am poem-ing to be a loam king
I too thirst for warm licked Spring
I root with what you regard as reticulations
structuring mental illness to fit your vulnerabilities
yes, I use sticks to scratch words
my take on cynical post modern
glass house, glass walls
I try the exhibitionist bleed
make sport of locking myself
away from being able to be loved
by all the light morning brings
to my very own
ten penny freak show
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