Loathe, an honest man must be,
to admit delight in the dark.
The fascination of blurred sensations ...
The quieting of the mind's endless machinations ...
As consciousness narrows to a single contemplation ...
like the gaze from a window in a warm, cozy house,
into a wild, wintry dance of snow.
Yet, I must admit this poison I drink freely
is tasteful to me beyond its mere taste.
And I avert eyes when I skirt the painful truth -
that I enjoy the way it subdues my mind and will,
the way it offers false comfort through temporary ignorance of responsibility,
the way it makes simple things brim with sudden significance,
as though seen for the first, or from the eyes of a child.
And there's even some part of me that wishes to see,
how much it will take to whelm over me.
With each sip, gulp, and glass, I dare liquid luck
to break my mind, my control, my genius - if it can!
Some genius it is who takes delight
in constant recalculations
of what it takes to dim his light.
5 September 2020
My abecedarian fingers
Numb to their recalculations and lexicons
I brush slimly my thumb through each
And clasp myself in fives or nines
It sinks its full weight like an equivocate clasp
One gaucherie to an eldritch comeuppance
A padlock lip nimble and pivoted like sickness
Delicate but ultimately dependent upon timing
The human stomach is a pendulum
I feel mine pulse as cynosure cascaded
I cherish extemporaneous occurances
Empyrean palisades and medications
I collect as a dictator my tintinnabulations
Of etiolated tchotchke and clamp my fistful
Stumpside in the rivulet, Adamic clay bathes
Of my clasping reconnaissance of fives and nines.
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