This is an edited version of the poem that first appeared in Fountain of Youth (Vine Leaves Press, 2016), p:77-78.
There is a geology in the heaven of the mind,
wherein I had succumbed.
I begged the mercy of the angels and the devil
and whatsoever roamed.
Let it be that I implored,
and tore off my middle thumb.
I drew the blood of ego from the core
to let the faucet run.
But lo! The world moved on.
And here I stumble still,
listening to the twittering
of salacious human beings.
Let it be that I abhor
the light they harbored in
a dusty portmanteau composed
of smiles and résumés.
The days they bumble on,
a ringing in my ear.
There is no middle thumb, I’ve found,
or heaven far or near.
A touch of fire scorches those,
who’re born to tell the tale.
But it begs the question then
why am I cautioned and assailed?
Give me back my manic pose.
Bantam moments. Grins and play.
A phase I will recall
with bashful warmth and wild disgrace.
The pendulum now lolls,
bunging monotonies,
slumbers stretch and yawn
and I keep drenching all my sheets.
