I was drinking, but was
not drunk when I saw
a thing I had not seen.
When did they hang these
paintings on this wall?
A cave and ship, lighthouse
on the stony beach.
The colors look like crayon.
The blink is heavy, and I
have defeated myself again.
I run these stupid races
from time to time, though
never once have I won.
I live a life of dirty dishes.
I am every crusted knife.
I am every sticky cup.
The holy spirit speaks to me
in whispers not made of words:
we want small things to give
us pause, we want the
anesthetic of anathema.
Nine times nine thousand
are the footsteps down to
me, and I can hear the
subtle voice that calls out
poisoned names, that pimp
who pushes poems.
Homo sum,
humani nihil a me
alienum puto.
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