and lightning flicker
in bleary, bloodshot eyes.
The black flood of night.
Remember the never-healing wound
of the fisher king,
I know it well.
Clots like rocks in the flowing black river
of the volcano within.
I want my words to rise like incantations.
On the fumes rising above the tripod
where the Oracle of Delphi sits knowing,
knowing she knows...
I almost don't care about you who are reading this.
It's a life and death struggle within myself.
It's very private.
Pulling the curtain back slightly, I hear
no birdsong at this dark hour,
no glimmering dawn.
In the void, I throw the antidote in.
Incantations
that would undo the spell if it were a spell.
Probably it isn't a spell,
probably it's
reality.
Words to split the earth apart,
change the dismal landscape,
re-orient the black
burning spots.
_
pieced together from words spoken into a voice memo during a sleepless night,
final draft written July 8, 2012 in Toronto
In case of misunderstanding, I need to say that this poem is not bleak but very positive.
