Letheward Seep

Some read to remember, some to forget. I remember childhood bus
rides, knees tucked into comfortable leather, sick and alone, I was for
a time Robinson Crusoe. There was a time when a bound volume: Rome,
Cosmos or Narnia was enough to make me one with Brahma.


Some drink to remember; some to forget. An empty
cupboard filled with a whisky bottle. Unity is perverted; a globe of
writhing, biting insects. "Man's Religions" comes alive with a glass of
brandy, red wine or cheap vodka.

I smoke two joints
in the morning; I smoke two joints at night. Cursed be the day that I
was born to set it right. A cherried bowl used to make the sky blue,
the grass green, the lion to lay down with the lamb. Now, five bowls
brings only troubled sleep.

There is nothing like a
black mat upon which to meditate. A candle can unify a world
disjointed, turn "Guernica" into Raphael's "David." There's nothing
like cold water splashed on a haggard face, an early morning jog, a
throbbing heart, a living now. But the candle slips into two and I can
barely see the left one. A bookish Odin, I can't see the left side of
the world though I claw my face and make puss seep from my ear.