Anthills of the Mind

Awful dead or awful old- it all
needs fitting together the
ambient with the rest. What
had been deepened by his
derangement- was this
indulgent amnesia?

He knew long ago she had
been the steam yacht of a
famous leader of humanity.
The sheer one-hundred-meter
height of that sacred grove
of yew or lindens?

Obstacles for him to meet and
in fact that was a startling
advertisement for this day
and age. What was the
high purpose of his
gallant band entangled?

A man, a shave and a haircut.
He just saw her in the gloaming
nights and other folklore
in those anthills of his mind-

newspapers in English, Spanish,
Portuguese and French-
thirty six thousand
words-

ants crawling like demons who
may be of worlds beyond the
moon-

he had a vision- of a dead man
winning, and he thought that
might be me as it never hurt
to look a little deeper.

Lucifer Shakes Me in the Night

for Roky Erickson

That damned thing
known but unknown
precariously
strange like
kicking flashing
lights in the dark.

Careful study of
the space between
the notes leads
me to discovering
where the pyramid
meets the eye.

I am beyond the
immediate familiar
now, and I’ve got
ghosts as I stare
at a straight line
that vanishes on
occasion.

Carcasses of chickens
and the empty vanity
of games of chance
played against two
headed dogs of heaven
that surround us
everyday. I crush
some pennies,
and I stumble ever
onward.

I think of demons as
I head out thirteen
across the night. I
think of the lies
above my head shining
down on me, fickle
twinkling lies.

Tunnel dark thoughts of
subterfuge and phone
lines that have been
necessarily abandoned
in this cold age of
frozen technology.
I do not worship this
cybernetic ecology.

I have no other place
to be- red lights, green
signs, Christmas
underground for years and
years walking with a
zombie tonight. Serpent
kisses made of wax
licking my brain.

I have the fortitude
of Samson just prior
to the shears, the
strength of Heracles
right before the seven
labors- mine mine mind
finding comfortable
lodgings in the ruins
of the night/morning.
All rooms seem too
large when you are
alone.

Yes, years have gone
by tonight, and yet
they melt away so
quickly I do not
think anyone has
noticed not even
the Goddess of the
eaves nor the fairies
of the doorway. Frozen
notes stuck in my
throat I begin to choke.

Nothing in this big
round world is worse
than looking down
at your loneliness
in the dark of night-
with no idea how to
get to you. My heart
palpitating now.

There are things that
can never be seen, but
have been foretold by
old men with piano key
teeth who study such
things endlessly in
rooms with no windows
in mountains alone.

Where prognosticators
succeed maps fail me,
utterly
and
completely. I leave
this city of bridges
on the wrong route in
the dark. I reorganize
the space around me.
Neon signs once
on fire to never
burn again can not
light my way tonight.

Driving through sides
of the city with giant
chunks ripped out by
jagged teeth. The
highway rises like
burning flames
higher and higher-
leaving me far
far
below.

Circling-
missing turns
discovering
hollow faces
of electric
fiends painted
on cement with
orange glowing
tips.

I discover a free spot
on the borderland
between:
the present
and the future,
the here
and the now and
I’ve had enough.

I park for the lack
of anything better
to do, and I drink
down the
moon to the left
of me- finally in
the night I am real.
Far away from
the morning that will
surely come and burn me
right up. Until then
I’ll sit here with this
buzz in my head and
wait for that suicide
clock to work-
maybe it never will.