everything withers on a vine like
                                                         grapes
                                                                ­      to
                                                                ­           raisins.
Seeking the power of sublimation,
I grasp the ghost of my sadness
by the scruff of it's ghostly collar
and look it in the ghostly eyes to tell it,
as resolutely as Horatio Nelson
                                             screaming
                                                                ­  commands to his fleet to attack
Napoleon's assembled navy
at the mouth of Aboukir Bay
two centuries
and
19 years before the meanwhile write,
that I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I really can't breathe you
sonuvabitch.  

*but in the end, my victory is as
assured as Napoleon's eventual
defeat. I will route my demons at
their own little Waterloo...
and even if they return
from exile to rule one last time,
they will find their second attempt
much
more
fleeting.