He enters a room full of Manson lookalikes–

Jelling like late day sun in the purple sky.

Congealing, as his eyes slowly lower themselves from their lids

And peer out across the dim atmosphere.

A fog pervades.

He murders someone– in his head.

Scythe thoughts slash from that hedgerow thicket:

A clearing of mind.

Only momentary, then back into the brambles:

Picking wild berries along the way.

He hasn’t gotten sick once;

Probably kept him both alive.


Surveying the periphery of his burial ground,

He observes unfamiliar skeletons

         dancing in concentric circles

Around the memory of his mother.

His impaired empiricisms render him

A succession of unreasonable quandaries,

For which he has no solution.

He sharpens his scythe on brainstem whetstone.

The mizzle denses,

And he recedes into the filmy scrabble

         once again.



Fall 1984

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