I bury myself to this rusted root,
The sum of the sun and moon
And the synchronicity
Of car horns and bleeding streetlights.
And you *****,
And it gets no better.
And you **** down A celery stick,
And the cops turn down the street,
And I put on Coltrane,
Rue the Muse from his slumber.
I knock,
But not too hard,
Shuffles papers,
Invites me in.
The ancient fan whirs slowly,
And you reach
For a switch, you ***** blindly,
He leads you
To the place of water
Where fish cry,
And I drink in night,
And I take by no right
What is mine,
All this monochrome reflections,
As you dwell
On playwrights,
Editors,
Poets,
Symphonies,
A hulking Brahma
Raises on his quarters,
You steady him For the charge,
And he breaks the gate,
Terrorizing the clouds,
And he runs burning the sun
And your racing with fire,
And it's rawness burns your belly,
And he snorts the red dirt,
And your carried in his madness,
And his name is thunder,
And you Boom the heavens,
And you crash like an ocean,
And his madness is your own,
And I rise in the fury,
And I sleep in the pages,
And a rush of wind building,
Taking my words with them.