sitting upon an old, stone ghat
I felt the flow of what was not
coracles once spun down this stream
like dervishes in a wistful dream
now the dream was cold and lonely
sing songs of the one and only
it doesn’t change a single thing
be that one a drone or a king
I’d followed the drums down into a trance
time was vacant from my every glance
and I’d lost track of which world I was riding
I glimpse it faintly,
despite the obscuring cloak
that you clutch to yourself,
huddled against false sins
cast off the cloak
embrace the naked state
as before being imbued with gloom
illusion can’t be flogged away
but still you choose the whip
claiming the sting feels a lot like living
or that some days agony beats numbness
but you think you can crack something loose
something that was never there
I heard your shout of, “Sink or float?”
You tossed me in, in my old, worn coat.
Copper coins pulled me under the waves.
Silencing the pounding tom-tom raves.
There is no me in the float.
No rising tide can lift my boat.
Surrendering to the swarm, drifting down.
Thinking I’ll wash up on the other side of town.
But what sinks down doesn’t wash up.
Unless I never left the pub?
My hands smell of pine oil.
What a powerful soap.
It may not make me clean,
but it shot me back in time.
— a chrononaut blown out the locks
all through the residue of a cleanser.
Racked back to a mid-morning heart attack
when I was washed back in a trial by flak.
One fudged together with a pile of facts
to make quite the story.
I never read it.
but played my part.
All the pain and none of the wisdom
— just the opposite of what a reader seeks.
on a bus to I know not where.
They seemed easy breezy
in the way of those who know
where they are going.
But destination wasn’t in the bus’s program.
It was built to circle eternity,
letting the eager stew in endless moments.
A chill — the big chill — lost in a default mode.
Still, I could have followed their stories forever,
but for the skip every time the bus hit that pothole.
Cluing me in that they weren’t.