Clear your muddled, cluttered head
And have a slice of honeyed bread
To take into your secret room
Where your tea is hot and your flowers bloom.
There, you’ll think and have a smoke,
Text a friend with a random joke,
Watch the birds and people go by
From the window on the other side,
Start the first lines of a poem,
And just feel fully alive and alone.
Blank and white with a frostbitten edge,
Like silver knives stinging in every little breath.
Too cold for sex, but perfect for a touch
From fingers warm that don’t sink too much.
It starts with a trance, to the depths, to the roots,
And the emptiness inside, uncluttered, unpoluted.
A masculine abstraction made with feminine grace.
Insensitive seasons reflecting nature’s soft face.
A hunger in a dream, cutting straight through my words,
A silent understanding, an intuition unheard.
The loss of all heat and the induction of warmth.
Pining for nothing and weighing all its worth.
Ambiguities vanish, there’s only one choice,
To relinquish and recover body, disposition, and voice.
I was naked, around twilight,
Covered in dirt and leaves
Having been buried alive,
By life buried.
A crawling mass of moist earth
Composed of dismembered deaths,
Colonies of feeding decomposers,
And my own fragile ego.
I must have sunk
From grace down to dirt
And been planted face-down,
Neglected and self-misused.
I suppose I slept
Because I dreamed vividly
In colors more vibrant and varying
Than I ever felt before.
I’d visited myself,
Seen the spectrum of my being
Like so many blends of fantasy and memory
Shifting perpetually within.
Only after waking
I recognize the implication
Of finding myself alive,
Head-first buried in a hole.