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Untitled Yes I died December 11, 1965, thru acid from Atlantis. The earth, an awkward drum, dropped time within me. An expressionless quagmire swallowed me. Fog massaged my forehead; closed my eyes. A sheath enveloped me; a heavy vacancy Was my space. Inside me a cocoon unfolded. I groped for anything to catch on. My friends just waved goodbye. A large butterfly pirated me into the night, dark as India ink. I heard morning ragas but couldn't understand. I thought of dropping reasons on the earth But didn't have any. It was a silverscreen melodrama. It was the greatest show on earth. Deeper and grimmer I rode the howling butterfly. The bohemian thief stealing me to the hold of night. Time ate ripe peyote. Idly, it reached my frayed veins. Forty months I felt the rush of nausea. Stampeding fears had no sweets for me who cried wolf only once. I became dust. A hollowed bowl was the deed of my life. My epitaph was blank. Gravity pulled me to the blackest schizoid nothing And introduced me to the winds of union. Absurdly the vulture butterfly vanished; Returned to sleep. The cocoon closed for now. I stood alone. New. Virginal. I saw some words on the skin of the cocoon: Birth and death are metaphors of life. Rebirth is life. Become become become |
| Other poems: for devorah for devorah ii "he leaned against someone who cared" In My Dreams Poesy Syllogism Blues tuesday basketball "we are all trees in a forest" |