STUPEFIED LIKE THE MOON THAT STAYED IN THE RING TOO LONG
Stupefied like the moon that stayed in the ring too long
and took one too many blows to the heart as the knees
of the Pillars of Hercules are beginning to buckle and my legs
have turned to rubber but nothing’s bouncing back
like a lacrosse ball banked off my prophetic skull
like a wake up call in a game of billiards
nobody’s put any spin on, chalking their pool cues
as if they were standing in front of a blackboard
like a long shot everybody’s betting on
to pocket the eight ball in the far left blackhole.
Alarming as it was at first, I find myself slipping into
the occasional bubble once and awhile like
an alternative universe, and just sitting there
staring back at the world numb as the lens
of a glass third eye embedded in the rosette
of a plaster hurricane. A bit catatonic,
and if not a peaceful recess from the world
as if it were something I were dying to get back to,
at least a truce to gather up the dead like roadkill.
No opinion, judgement, reason, word, or rapture
of blissful ignorance and miserable wisdom,
Neither empty nor full at either end of the hourglass,
feels as if I’ve sat here on my lotus for a thousand years
like a meteoric foundation stone with a Martian lichen
for a brain, as if that were as far as the Rover got,
and Curiosity would just have to go it alone from here.
Cul de sacs, dead ends, and wombs, moments out
of time when you put your starmap down like a sketchbook
and stop looking for your likeness among the stars
as if things couldn’t get any stranger than they already are.
Is this ageing? Is this some kind of spiritual Benz
breaking effervescently like nitrogen bubbles
in my blood like a moonrise that came up
from the depths of its own dead seas too fast
like the great white whale heading for the Pequod?
No one ever really knows until it’s way too late.
O, Mama, tell me again about the future I dreamed
of having before I was awakened by a world
that got in my way like a gatekeeper demanding
obols and boar’s tusks minted from gold dust
I panned on the moon to watergild my deathmask,
especially the part about living up to my own
expectations in life. Haven’t I stood my ground,
starmud caked to a rootless tree, never
taken my eye off that star that’s been wandering
beside me all these lightyears, leaving firepits
in its wake it’s made out of the crowns of the thorns
in the locust trees burning at their own stakes?
Consumed in the auto de fes of distant starlight breaking
through the pyres of dead branches it’s placed
like a laurel around the feet of a lighthouse in a desert
firewalking its own lunar mirages of oceanic consciousness,
did I not light a candle in a shrine of unconsecrated sky burials
following creation myths of their own making
as if they were breaking trail for offroad zodiacs
instead of going by the book and covering their tracks
like a life in the shadows of posthumous pyromaniacs?