the man was reaching,
pulling, ripping the skin
from his forearm.

something fell from the
darkened plateau of his mind
into the valley of yearning.

a crash.
hairs are pulled from
the scalp—
screech—
mirrors broken, blood.
the voices—

all of them speak at once—
are a torturous cacophony.

they come from all angles
out of the dead ends of
lost memories. they want him
to remember.

in the corner,
a light glows mockingly
at his discontent.

the sound
of sliding doors eases the pain
of thumbnails broken
in half.

(pondering jazz—shifting shadows
in the light of the moon)

he cannot escape its calling. he will not.

he tells himself,
"only one hit tonight"

the veins bulge,
pupils expand—


(tunnel vision of paradise
lost in between
the madness of a transfixed mind,
and the rising
overdose
of the sun



***********************************


"(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands" -e.e.cummings



"If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll halt the clock
That syncopates our love." -Sylvia Plath