Council Circle: Ithaca, NY July, 1990.
There is a gaping hole in the center
of
my forehead,
And my brains are spilling out wherever
I
step.
Blood, and brains, and small, sharp
fragments
of skull
Trickle down my cheeks, and I can taste
them
salty with my tongue.
And, if you look very closely, you can
see
my soul, newly discorporate,
Pouring forth into the air before me.
It is silky silver-white like smoke,
With sparkles of light dancing in
zigzag streaks.
My lungs gradually take in less and
less
air
Until they gently deflate for good.
When all the blood, and brains, and
wisps
of soul are gone,
It becomes possible to see the inside
of
my skull.
It is a small chamber, but comfortable
and
inviting.
With the little gumption I still
possess,
I invite you to find a rug and lie down
Here where it is safe and warm.
The Imps (A Prose Poem)
The imps come into my room when I turn out
the
light. I like them. Sometimes one will plunge a chef’s knife into my
back.
I feel it go quickly: skin; muscle; slide between ribs; lung (maybe a
slight
hiccup here); muscle, rib; skin, and I see the tip poke out my breast.
I
doesn’t hurt much. They all giggle when I pull it out. I put it on my
night-stand,
sometimes wipe the blood off with a tissue. The holes close up with a
loud
sucking noise. The imps will laugh at that, too. The bloodstains on my
sheets
are gone when I wake up. Sometimes my whole bed is covered in blood. It
makes
me feel good to see it all red. It’s mine. All I have to do is think
about
blood and it’s everywhere. I’ll open my jugular vein with my
nail-clippers,
and the imps will run up my bed with their caps in their hands to catch
the
blood. I take a cup from my night-stand, and we all drink some. They
clean
it all up before I’m awake. I like them.
(9/13/92)