Day 17 – Sick Day

There is nothing that a doctor
could find wrong with me-

so I cannot get a note.
But I’m staying home
anyway.

I’ve got a fever of the mind
I can’t prove,
yet I feel

heavy,
collapsed from the inside,
tense
from holding steady
too long.

There is a seed of grief
I have to tend to
before it grows big,

a sadness which wonders
at all the scuttling,
all the getting by.

“Am I getting lost?”

I know this road too well,
I know the cost,
I know the cure,

and today I’m calling out
to fix myself.

Year 2: Day 160 – A Glorious Reign Of Terror

If the dream must die
I’d rather kill it myself
in a glorious reign of terror.

If there is no reward after all
for patience and virtue
I might as well laugh
while I rip down the sky.

I might as well give the crowd
the show they’ve been aching for,
if there is no reason
to be demure anymore.

If they want a bag of meat
they’re gonna get it;
bloodhounds snarling in a language
that needs no interpretation,
whose currency is fire in the eyes,
is mirrors and skin,
is hunger and thirst.

I’ve lived for decades in this form
and don’t I know its charms,
every prize it were capable to snatch?
Haven’t I known it were possible
to stun the wolves before now?

But the secret dance, my best colors
behind my eyelids which shutter
a world unbreached, unquiet,
unwilling to bare itself out,
had a dream that they were enough,
a silly dream,

an innocent dream from softer pastures
from younger planets without wisdom,
before being lifted by its neck scruff
and set down in a ghastlier truth
and stoked to fever.

If the dream must die
I’d rather kill it myself
than watch it rust to dust;

I’d rather stand beloved
by a pack of dogs, frenzied
by the dripping knife in my hand,
beautiful at last
in a glorious reign of terror.