Like witchdoctors with skeletal face paint
we sit around our jungle fire
passing our peace pipe
telling tales of the Old Gods
we speak to create our reality
in the darkness around our heads
the spirits come out to play…

a piece of a dream
I split my skull at its seams
at the base I sliced
with no grace
savage, slobbering and fiendish
with no need for a brace

my goal the bone brake
holding the world at bay
and me perched atop spine

‘Get right down there boy,
everybody hates a touch-up job.’
he says to me in grease coated overalls
tipping ash off his cigarette
I do, then

I lurch forward, split spit
with tense mitts
grasping for holds that
sit distant

illumination is turbulent flow
so I sink into halo day-glow
my mind pouring out
onto frying pan streets
overflowing, I cease to need
to create or to placate
my raving incurable mind
it burns up in no time

night saw me in clarity cauterized
the sealed wound the skull between my eyes
out of strange dreams I come into sun’s rays
to once again wander through mysterious days