How terrible a sight:
the morning sun.
So much to see
that will soon be broken.
I once spoke
to a friend
in a nightmare.
Their hands shook,
compressed and rattled
and collapsing
under these immense
rain drops.
I drowned right before
their eyes,
for the rain had
swallowed the air.
As each trickle
burrowed further into
my hydrated lungs,
they began to laugh.
I awoke, not hating them,
but feeling severely torn
and withered.
I knew then
that I was helpless.
My screams
were never loud enough
to pierce the boundary
of consciousness.
I remember an essence.
It may have been an aura.
It was tawny
and drifted
somewhere just above
the golden prisms
that marked your flesh.
I say these things now
because you visited me.
In one of those dreams
one wishes to rip into reality
I felt our unity once again.
It was lonely when my eyes
developed fissures
and I felt the beat of
sunlight upon them.
You were not there.
That’s okay.
I think you’re happy.
And so I came to realize
that no utterance
can emancipate
some shadows.
And it is oft
the beautiful dreams
that are the most tragic.
Streaming mist-cosmos,
crashing blissful their by-ways,
seeking fresh earthquakes.
This is a peaceful war.
A war against wars.
It rages just behind the temporal lobe,
but according to testimony
it sprung from the swollen amygdala.
One too many taps.
Upon occasion,
the brigades break loose,
sprout out toward the rest of the body,
down the central nervous system,
and eject from the skin.
Skirmishes are waged
across the valleys between goosebumps,
and under the shade of the bristled palm trees of hair.
Bullets ring out from the pores
and triumphs are dealt and dismayed.
The angst and shell shock,
binary moods,
contemplation,
and airy passion
grind to a halt
in the cold sweat of panic.
An aneurysm, pounding like a mortar,
is heard from the foothills.
My sanity takes refuge beneath my fingernails,
while I am holed up inside some kind of darkness.
The mania has hidden inside a dendrite,
waiting to pounce.
For now…
stalemate.
And she, the hedonist,
bequeathed those words unto me,
“I am the infinite. The lonesome.”
I am familiar with thee…
I shall always wonder
why she wore my embrace
like the finest of mink.
