How easy to sink into ether, Shakespeare dreams,
I wonder among the lost and stolen
children who inhabit my mind.
How nice to float with the rising sound
of Stravinsky in the night
and the Rites of Spring.
How luxerious to dream a life away
and sing to the wind outside my window
and murmer to the ghosts in the books.
To be great and to be unknown
is like keeping a side of yourself
I treat myself as my mate
to keep the world out
to keep what is pure in.
Cordelia knew that love is Banishment
the result of giving is to be laid, spent out
and alone in the endless grave of nighttime (slow fire
and the sound of cars, rough sex and jackhammers in
the soul of one impassioned).
How nice to sink into bourbon slow fog
envelopes me in its meaningless warm breath
like a caul to protect a child from drowning in
Another day of treading water on the surface of this
A speck of dust,
nothing inside of nothing.