I've been dreaming of this red haired
naked woman shot through with freckles,
peaceful from her goddamned knowing half-smile
to the silken red pit of her. Can you imagine?
She's peaceful to the guts and,
although sleep paralyzes me,
I pray for her to sit her ass down
with the rest of us, resume inhaling and exhaling out of nothing less
than habit, go down
with the wretched ego-bound ship,
so to speak,

If I listen I'm chastened
by D.H. Lawrence, "I have never seen a wild thing
sorry for itself."
Unnerving to find my soul
is a housecat
eating Whiskas out of a bowl on the floor, purring into
the lap of whoever will have me.

Counsellors, preachers, D.T. Suzuki and Oprah in their wisdom
advise us to live, not just breathe,
as though the two are different things,
as though it's possible to give substance
to the bland cold repetition of days
with psychotherapy, yoga, and a gluten-free diet.

What if the only way to live
is to breathe
from one day to the next
drunk with indecision?

Nevermind. I'm suffering priapism of the brain sentences form fractured by the force
of my everpounding heart
growling for flesh and

I shower for far too long
the pigment in my skin running
down the drain I'm bleached
bone white
vampire pure, here,
let me suck you clean.

Y'know, when they said 'take of his body'
I read it differently, I took all I
could and ran with it,
limbs and bones and floppy
sheets of disintegrating skin
falling from my arms, rolling in the dirt.
He doesn't need it, anyway. Give it to me.
I need substance.

Prary for us.