Let it blow!
Blow through,
rip, tear and take
back to Kansas
the decaying clutter of
last year’s living.

This mind left a mess here.
It held onto, no, dogmatized
the rites of living.
Now I live in Boo Radley’s basement,
with fetid furnishings, stale air, and
clocks all stopped at 1:11.

[The curse of imagination is to see what you ask for.]

The spider-webbed fruit of my forced labors –
an etheric fabric of false beliefs –
covers everything,
denying all
access to light.
Dead…nothing but dead stuff.

Blow wind, blow it all away!
Make sweet storm wreckage of my mind.
I give you permission
to leave me bare.
It’s easier to risk rebirth
than pretend living.