Mare
Time whispers a voice honeyed jasmine thick with moss.
She has grown old against the evening sun, enveloped in the dust of dusk.
In the reflection of stagnant pools, she doesn’t ripple.
Merely notes the landmarks of her face, the constancy of her mind.
Time staggers forward.
Gods and Prophets
Of course
Kerouac
had no fear;
cocaine was
easy to
come by.
Revolution does
not stem
from the sober,
solitary mind,
but from a rebellion
fueled by adrenaline
and endorphins
and synapses,
snap
snap
snapping
like dried up
saplings
and words that
trickle from
numb tongues
faster than white
powder up paper
straw, but does that
give meaning?
purpose?
insight?
On enough blow
anyone can talk to
god or become
a prophet,
on the fifty
second hour we
can all read each
other’s mind.
Kerouac was no
different,
he merely hit
the road,
bummed around,
locked himself
in his cave for three
days and let the
paper fly from
typewriter.
Uninvited
You are uninvited, bitter against lips, rash over skin, sleep talk, night sweats, a battle of syntax.
Syllables wrap thin ropes around outstretched fingers.
The tongue, so strong.
Your voice molds over me, an iron cast conceived in a stretched mind and firmly planted feet.
This pop of shoulder, this curse word and collection of false stories, they are not meant for you. I only spit them in surprise of your presence, eager to remain pacified against determination.
You’re here now, without warning. The best kind of unexpected guest.
I am ready for slink and slither, praying on revolution like a forgotten religion, words on pagan moon, animal inside human covering.
Become claws and creature reptile and remarkable.
Come,
I’ve already let you in.