i have dreams of dying, of breaking through the cosmic void
at precisely eighty-nine miles per hour, crunching bones
through the plexiglass wall between my face and god's,
and every night, waking in a cold sweat, i write these scenes--
reels and tapes from an ambien drive--and i pretend to have power,
pretend to have control over their great outcome.
there's a terror, smooth and quick like a nightingale,
and she likes to kiss my neck, to slide her fingers--weeds--
through the mesh of cobras behind my ears. she'll follow me, i think,
until this night i dream of, until i'm broken like the sound barrier,
like the skin of an unripe fruit between vicious molars.
the only power i have now is the release of thoughts,
the feed of energy into the universal consciousness;
this is godlike strength, feeble yet omnipotent in perspective,
and this makes my inevitable loss both sin and tragedy,
drama and rogue desire.
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