- Dan Olmschenk
And, in the black water of my miscalculations,
the eel-like forms of thought-creatures converge
upon the darkness, ravaging the feeble, young
vegetation of its color.
Heart: you've lurched
and lumbered. Hummed and hammered. Filled the glass up past
the spilling point. You overflowed and lost the drink
in arteries. It's painting my veins and organs black,
one by one; acidic eyes, oh, lustful wink,
and hands turned ash. Gone played with fire for too long.
You must be a shadow, cutting, fading in
and out of existence, leaning into the gone,
tumbling now and then into the ever thin
spaces just outside reality. But I
am still inside, and watching shadows swallow up
the definitions of my love, and now, my body,
as streaks of black traverse the streets, like massive slugs,
the bums and beggars, those to whom we all close our eyes,
are eaten, the faces of those forgotten, slowly swallowed.
The resonance of being is emptied in black wind.
The locusts in the seams of sidewalks slowly move.
The parasitic space between a phantom's hands
is growing until our ears know only fear and truth,
and eyes know none, our mouths open and gaping,
and when we have begun moving in the darkness
finally, when we have braved the thought of walking
into the sky, the black gate, then, what is our purpose?
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