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Mad under blood moon, my mother spent a cake of dreams to buy me. Still I drive under hoof of bleeting trumpets, from womb to tomb a beggar after forgotten scraps. Onward I push through bog and chunder, churlish in grabbing soups of ill- define. I stride aright in search of lights in this darkest heart of night. Serendipity and itchy scalp, laughing serpents and parasites of good fortune ride me like a skeleton horse in stygian lakes of star lit ichor. I strip unto the bone. I lay bare my essentials. I care no more for these lost words. Weeping and wounded I was born into this languishing toil of a sweat brewn world. I have yet to find a warm refuge in which to lick my hurts and dissolve in tears. For each drop that pushes through my reticent duct an explosion of vitriol bursts through my tenderest flesh. Acrid in humid fumes of burning sentience, there is not one here who has stomache for this mustard. Always it is this groping dullness. Loping in ungainly rhythms after half glimpsed flashes of triumph. Rushing with gouts of steam errupting, I arrive to find all the apostles dead and long decayed.Greying in my temples, where are all those of prism hue imbued with godlight to shine on ill refine? Why can I not throw off this shaggy dampness that hugs at my legs and clogs the drains of wash basins? Why must I impede myself with my own uneaten remains? Clinging to this corpse so desperately, can't I just put it down for a rest? I lie, I am never this tired. I don't exist. This is nothing, emptiness. This is not me.. Leaves bring rising tides of sand brides, Bridging living fossils with dead apostles. Whole streaks run red, shining in arc ray abundance. Deliver up those silver tongues of gristle! Show me the paint of persephone's pedestal! Strike a stance with that jutting lance! Show me more then a puppet's gutter dance! I steep. I lie in dead heat of real warmth. Is this slow fire simply my imagination? Is this quaking earth really my own tremble? All this him haw, her ham had his hat nonsense... I just want a cork to bob on this line. I'm dripping at the maw, livid and foaming. I can't keep a cap on this steeple Jack! Bodies keep poppin' off the people rack! A rider in handspring appointment... what does he deliver? Will his message bring stares of "figuring it out", What doesn't he say? A brief pause. I can't stand on a floor with no plan, so dribble I do as puddle into the pan. Limp and milky in uncertain places, I'm a tofu boxing glove without any laces. The space I fill with butter and hummus, clumsily bumbles with grace of lummox. No hammock slept in. No rough wood hewn. No saint of the apocolypse. No thistledown missle crown. No light of easter stars. I grief on bloody brambles. I spit for fire. I light a cigarette, though it's wet, and when reading what I've written can't remember what it meant. Do I get it yet? SHall I go on? I walked on shallow waters... Searching for a deep well spring. I walked on shallow waters, Awaiting wisdom distant waves would bring... I walked on shallow waters ...And my feet were left thirsty At thirst I fought! And dry I died, Eyes open wide! At first I thought That I'd survive, But but peered inside/ to find/ my mind/ divided. My gaping soul must be united! Day in, day out, I burn. I on fire. I am fire!