A title will come to me like manna. I don’t know why I’m here
at these words unedited like a runaway train by sabotage.
I want to teach myself to dig up graves. How to exhume buried desires & ngrained, stunted fears. Once it’s been sanitized, I’ll sprinkle some dirt around the pillow & side-pockets.
I’ll instruct myself to lay in the box still as death. Should I leave the lid open? Make a blow-hole like Poe?
Lay down each night since Thanksgiving in my bed forgetting his smell on a pillow washed of his deja vu. Lay down with my childhood monster both hungry every night for blood even if it is my own flesh.
The worst fear is often the most silent & still. It’s the moment just before the fangs dig in. It thrives in-between & hates the light. In the pause may be the opportunity for change if only the gape in her mouth didn’t seem improbably unfathomable. If only a night-light doesn’t illuminate the empty side of a coffin.
What does it mean for me to recover from bloodlust when a slave is freed in a bigot’s country? Try not to think naturally Negro or my color standing out.
The days of recovery are costly sobering steps taken from an explosion heading toward nothing but “away”. The land-mine I owned for more than 2 scores has recently exploded. What’s the point of intoxication if the neighborhood & the police have seen me in my underwear at rock bottom, in handcuffs screaming “freedom”? I ain’t no Scottish Mel,but I’ve spilled my guts for all to see.
What’s there to fear when your fears are made public enough to take an objective examination? Habit is what I would fear. It’s not natural to climb into a coffin as Jesus & MLK & RFK did. I can hardly trust my intentions or thoughts.
What else is out there beyond my native soil? The sunlight burns. Friends carry pitchforks. Family wants me in blook-suckers anonymous. Most of the bipolar werewolves are on Depakote or drinking lithium.
If I’m on recovery’s yellow brick road, am I there yet? Each progress seems like iffy progress I’ve made years before. I’m watching the same movie like it’s the first time for years. Isn’t that call Dante’s Hell?
Still, there is no place like home. What do I do with this molting skin? It just clings onto my ego and mews like a wolf in sheep’s epidermis. I have no wisdom to impart, but how do you know you aren’t going in circles? Drop some bread crumbs.
If you can’t find any stones, drop off pieces of yourself till you get your bearings. The more precious or sacred, the brighter the guide-post.
Light it up.