Such a dream, certainty of an incantation. Everyday a war. Mingling with sobriety, like a mistress.
I keep turning on her.
Back to shapes, colors.
“Color inside the lines!”
Back to tic-tac-toe.
I was catching visions, hearing the subconscious, again, and again.
Too much red meat; too much red wine.
I sat there feeling helium. I decided to go blank.
I can hear it.
I can feel it.
I reminisce on a scripture: “You are what you’re chasing.”
If I might go metaphysical: Was it all day?
I came to rethinking: Does sobriety mesh with writing?
In a dear heartbeat—of matter and soul,
it isn’t correct.
I must let the sky talk.
What would it be like—complete animal,
I’d croak?
