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.

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