What does one do
with a free and sober mind
on an unencumbered evening,
when the birds find nests in
neighbor trees
for chirping cat-calls
amidst Orion-shine nightclubs
till the peacocking sun
flies over St. Mary’s Peak
while roosters rouse farmers
and pigeons drown downtown
with sour monotone coats
and begs of coos and cas
outside the Depot and the Rose?

You might find me in the throes
of Ulysses-like desire
to proudly toil till I tire
and find peace in the folds
of the king-sized bed
that occupies one corner of my home.
It’s neither dungeon nor throne
where all alone (sans-Penelope)
I may go
and rest
and rest
and rest
while the calls of the Underground
subside into the trees
like thunder into lightning rods
yielding peace,
welcome peace,
the likes of which
I had never known.

Yes, night,
bring me peace
but not at the expense of restlessness
till I have drawn
the atlas of my pain
and given every island a name
till every rocky crag of
toxicity and shame
has been labeled and examined
and photographed
till the potent flavors plain
and they’re categorized the same
as past frontiers and known horizons
and the hefty night’s enlightened
with the starchy prevailing whiteness
of the stars that I have made
and may they shine so bright
and happy
they may be seen during
the perfect light of day
and may I not be called by any
but my own given name.

(From April 2019)


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