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I.

Good wine

Smooth, deep, mature,

Wise.

It knows who it is, 

And is prepared to be eaten and swallowed,

Eager believer,

Necessary sacrifice for ignition of poetry, art,

Song and dance inside,

Ancient fire in the belly

Of the artist,

Eager receiver.

Blessed, good wine.

II.

The invitation

Nay! The admonition

To drink

Because I tried my utmost

Not to think of or linger too long

On the possibility of a strange, wild,

Otherworldly way of being truly alone,

To sleep and hear freely 

The nature of this longing,

To overcome the dread of being somehow

Wrong.

I take another swig,

And hearken:

I am getting better

At feeling into what may come next, for

What do I really want for me?

Only You know, hold this for me

Tenderly,

Preciously,

Graciously,

You, Divine, please.

III.

Is it abuse

Or sudden, instant blast of learning?

I can not comprehend.

The Giant Wheel of Time

- that great linear distortion -

Is all I can grasp

And even that is a stretch.

So, what of it, then?

Is to live to make constant effort?

Yes, Methinx.

Well, I’ve assistance, at least,

In holding aloft these glorious themes

In daydreams of you,

husky-voiced, blossoming,

Skinny minx.

Do I truly wish to understand

That which may lie in darkness

And what is the destination,

Does forgiveness sleep there?

Is that what I crave?

IV.

Incapacitated,

Loss of field for vision,

Acid in the heart, head and hymen,

Sick of grief piled up,

Sick of guilt and sadness 

Leading me by the hand:

Where’s my joy?

Where were you in the 1980s?

We’re doing well:

Look how far we’ve come.

This is an attempt at distraction.

Everything is a distraction.

Maddening.

Thank Gods for circles

Turning mad-making into

Running to seeking,

Longing for connection, 

Oneness.

Your agreeing or disagreeing with me is immaterial 

For I’ll either love you or hate you, 

Depending on my mood.

Poor you.

V.

Anyway, what kind of poet would I be

If I didn’t read other people’s poetry?

Observe: the circular thoughts 

Rolling out of the silence of 

These empty pockets,

Trying to crawl back up into the Mother.

Hey! Where were you in the 1980s?

And how is it that lust and pain

Can feel almost the same?

Once one has forgiven one’s self 

For all the sins of the world

And starts moving again, 

It’s quite an apprehensive thing.