YOU THINK LIFE IS
You think life is something
that is happening to you
from the outside
like upcoming events
posted like leaves on the wind
because you think your skin
is where you end
and the world begins
but to the wind
you’re just another sail
that thinks it knows where it’s going.
What’s the point of trying to mend
all those constellations
you’ve torn on the thorns of the moon
with a mouthful of pins
you keep sticking into yourself
to make someone else hurt
like a Barbie doll playing with voodoo?
What kind of magic
keeps getting caught up
in the weird starmaps and crazy webs
of the spells you try to cast over me
like toxic revelations of what it’s like
to see the world through the eyes
of a spider on acid
who thinks she’s the queen of the honey bees?
But it’s not the flowers
that fuel your delusion
of the occult powers
of a born-again schizophrenic
that keeps trying to carry me
like Rasputin’s cat in a burlap bag
down to the same river
you rescued Moses from.
You want to be the only wand left
in a snakepit of lesser magicians
when the pharoah asks for proof
you’re on a divine mission
to lead your people out of Egypt
by cleaving a sea of red shadows on the moon
to run like holy blood from a demonic wound.
That novella of facts without a theme
you’ve been working on for years
is just another interpretation
of an anonymous dream
that ended up on your desk
like dirty pictures of someone
blowing the whistle on their own life.
Your acutely annotated confessions
are always sins of omission,
waivers of space,
fevers of grace,
that your life,
of discounted miracles,
is finally in remission.
And I’m beginning to think,
and maybe I should be flattered,
that I was the only sin you could find
that was worthy for a while
of the severities of your redemption.
Where else would you look for a cure
if not in the heart of the disease,
but why put your own eyes out
to heal the mirror?
Why heave yourself ashore
like a tidal wave
over some unsuspecting island
just to wash your hands of me
when the sea closed
like an eyelid over Atlantis months ago
to dream the afterlife of a different death
that didn’t foul my last breath
with the sterile purity
of listening to you
make your rounds
like the moon in reverse
in the halls of the terminal nightward
where Lucifer never rings for the nurse?