2017 02 22
When I am scrying in deep glass of wine,
my bony body leaning awkwardly
against the window near a rotten pine,
I consider quantum uncertainty
that mirrors eyes of every human soul
emerging from their zombie chrysalis
so I can sketch formulas on my scroll
that reveals how I became Sisyphus.
I offer wine to my favorite witch
who asks me to repair her wagon tires
while she sews me goat cape with secret stitch
so I can fly from deserted church spires
while chanting ancient long-forgotten spells
with guttural cry of heart-aching hope
that wakens blind ghosts from waterless wells
and leaves me laughing, unable to cope.
I cannot explain where the dead may go
after our bodies are broken or burned,
so I stand staring at mist in blank snow
and try to pretend that I am concerned
about the glass rocket flashing at dawn
that leaves broken fragments of nameless minds
scattered across the castle chessboard lawn
who play chase while the angry queen unwinds.
Whenever I hear myself talk, I see
horrible demon of hate writhing lost,
so I walk circles, hoping to break free
from the mask of my heart crackled by frost,
but when new pair of wings bursts through my eyes
I return to the palace where God shouts
and fight him for dominion of the skies,
then lie on grass where new apple tree sprouts.