The Way Out

He’s still like back
fucking F. Scott, you’re
Zen and the Art.
You’re Zen
And he’s just fucking
the wind and the clouds.
Drunk, I’m so drunk
I want to try to remember,
(We teleport
to the past and to the future.
I remember every single time…
I’m inhibriated, feel this sense of
longing for a figure I’ve seen in this state.
The figure is the form of You.)
but my inhibitions are
still thick as
a swamp;
distractions.
Too many to shed, send
bleeding—the lining of my uterus is now.
I don’t know the moon phase,
haven’t seen the moon in days,
but somehow, beneath the hours
beaten into me,
I know it’s full, it’s new.
The brand,
grand newness
of an egg I found in a nest,
built of gravel, broken brick, and ash,
lightly upon a sand-castle of snow,
floating on ice.
I wanted to smash it open on the ice,
envisioning
all of my childhood traumas,
and all the Hell of Life.
But I knew
that thoughts are never the right thing
your intellect is wrong
and your instincts are wrong
and the only Way Out of this
maze is
Up:
to transcend
but not die.
I guard my eyes, while looking high Up into the sky--
On journey searching for The Truth,
I was somewhere on the way,
caged in a Venus Fly Trap
in the living power of the
throbbing violet things.
Somewhere… the tractor stopped
and I rolled out of the Stack of Hay,
rolled over a prairie of Sheep.
There was a Shepherd
looking into the attic window of a huge Victorian house,
broken down in San Francisco.
In the window He sees another window
of a pink Victorian doll house—
little home “less” Ragetty Annes and Andies
littered along the cracks of the floorboards—
with a colony of ants Living inside,
burrowing a well in the ground to their
supply of Hidden rubber Strings.
Their description
cannot say what I want to say,
and Their definitions
are even more vague:
Television rings in, I just need a
fucking moment of
Silence.
You go play in the bedroom,
slamming the door and
fucking around—
Where is the Center?
Where’ll I Live?
Their Boundaries are clouded,
this isn’t going to work out,
my first instinct is
TRY TO FIND A WAY OUT.