Monday, July 28, 2008


My madness is a
cyclical interloper
blowing in on a summer wind
and staying far too long

There is
warm water to the south
that makes my mouth dry
and leaves me parched

I've run out of wine
but can't seem to find the time
or the inclination
to buy more

There are
masses of spine-bent supplicants
praying to their deities
on bended knees

as if tokens left for saints
or voodoo queens
by fair-weather believers
can save us now

I barely blink
think the fan blades
whirring overhead
have it easy

In my next life I want to be
an inanimate thing
live a life without fear coiling
around in my belly

I want to choose
stillness and peace
over sweat-stained sheets
and dread

and the roaring fear
behind my ears
that is almost drowned out by
the frantic beating in my chest

It is impossible to rest
and keep the stillness
but with every little movement
there is a little death

Between breaths there is
confusion and convection
and a spinning, subtle misdirection
and always the waiting

This is always
how the madness begins
and ends