Just to scrape the resin
of thoughts long since distilled in stale jars
coated and re-coated with soot in a room white with ash,
he fornicates. Fluids exchange,
synapse to synapse, neuron to neuron,
cycling the same chemicals, threading the rhythm towards
a cool, wet, open white-fog.
Wild-haired men seek their demons
in Kublai Khan, in Xanadu,
where pounding eyes give rise to ghostly grandmothers
whose loose cheeks reverb unsteady moans,
and the spongy grasses of Eden
raise fingers of dew like remembered mindscapes.
And blues and pinks and purples as the sun.
No, this is not a place that time forgot,
this is America after the cooling flood,
when light rushes electrically over the earth,
marking debris, flickering through opaque walls,
gathering the salt of the earth and washing it upon metropolises.
Oaken, losing all to these studies in hunger,
his heart flutters as he feels sinewy tissues
rippling gently under and over his skin.
He stretches his taut and angry neck,
marking seasons like pages under a lamp,
coming together for the thrill of disintegration,
it’s the end he never quite understands:
what power quickens the pieces,
what threads to unravel or pull tight.
But he knows that he doesn’t want to swim much longer,
knows he doesn’t really want to reach that golden shore.
Sticky, almost exhausted,
it’s the resin that keeps him above the waves,
keeps him sweating, keeps him waking
from the same dream nightly:
standing on a beach, entranced by the sand.