SELL me a violin, mister, of old mysterious wood.
Sell me a fiddle that has kissed dark nights on the forehead where men kiss sisters they love.
Sell me dried wood that has ached with passion clutching the knees and arms of a storm.
Sell me horsehair and rosin that has ****** at the ******* of the morning sun for milk.
Sell me something crushed in the heartsblood of pain readier than ever for one more song.

It's 3 am and the gremlins are back again
Whispering in my ear without voices
tapping at my skull wit fingers they do not have.

Silently they complain and chide me, insistent and loud, yet incessantly soundless.
In my mind their wordless cry echoes and reverberates always the same.
They scream for ink and letters like wrathful Aztec gods craving fresh heartsblood

I hear some writers have a muse,
An elegant, gentle guide to lead them through the creative process.
I have my gremlins.

Small and clever, my gremlins are ever restless.
Forever they claw and pull at me.
Impatient, impetuous, never still.
They cry out to me, their demands the same as ever.
In one voice, and that one which makes no sound.
With their single silent scream they all shout...
WRITE THIS DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The price paid, begrudging none
The True Debtor knows the cost
Parts willingly, and would again
Should ever more be required
Feeling each moment that more is owed
Though so little, so little is asked

Giving all, every drop
Of heartsblood for the cause
For none greater exists
Nor could such ever be risen above
Always asking, What more, what more
Can I, to you, bestow?

And the smile, the touch, alone
Are the given response
Satisfying, overwhelming
The True Debtor, with luck unmatched
Pays again, 'til naught remains
But neither fades nor diminishes

And so Love moves the two
Each feeling the debt
Each paying their all, their all again
Until it cannot be said to whom the other belongs
Until they cannot be told apart

today
was the day
i turned it all off
all the noise
all the chatter
all the distractions
all the fear and fervent mysticism
all the pain and errant prophecy
all the useless superstitions
and endless contradictions
because i realized
i didn't need it
i didn't even want it
so that's when
i decided
i reached over
and out
and deliberately
pressed

OFF



and then there was Sky
and Sun
and the Grass-scented Wind
flowing all over my skin
sensuous as a silk gown
and it was then
i felt the Lift
i've been waiting so long
i'd forgotten it
what it was like
that merciful
glorious
gods-send

Lift

like in an elevator
that falls too fast
and stops short
in that half-second
when you taste your heartsblood in your mouth
and your mind floats weightless in your skull
and you know the Secret of All Things
in the Lift

as i was then
as i was flying
doing a hundred-and-one through the soft-blue sky
the midsummer wind pulling the tears from my eyes
as i remembered Her face
all over again
for the ten-thousandth time

A toad the power mower caught,
Chewed and clipped of a leg, with a hobbling hop has got
   To the garden verge, and sanctuaried him
   Under the cineraria leaves, in the shade
      Of the ashen and heartshaped leaves, in a dim,
          Low, and a final glade.

       The rare original heartsblood goes,
Spends in the earthen hide, in the folds and wizenings, flows
    In the gutters of the banked and staring eyes. He lies
    As still as if he would return to stone,
        And soundlessly attending, dies
           Toward some deep monotone,

       Toward misted and ebullient seas
And cooling shores, toward lost Amphibia's emperies.
    Day dwindles, drowning and at length is gone
    In the wide and antique eyes, which still appear
        To watch, across the castrate lawn,
            The haggard daylight steer.