spells & gris-gris

from A BOOK OF WITNESS

62

i live in dungeons

I live in dungeons
like a serf
my hand clutched
in my hand
to quell the shaking.
I am a scavenger
a brother
to my naked lord.
Anointed
I am eager to reverse
positions.
I no longer judge you
by your deeds
but when the clocks run down
I rush to meet you.
Blood & steel
are mine.
I need them
& they share
a function
with my own
Beware.
Beware.
The blade moves slowly
down my line of sight
& blinds me.
I am a little soldier
in my termite world
ready to kill

63

i will not eat my poem

I kill for pleasure
not for gain.
A man much more
than you     my hands
find knives
& flash them.
I am guilty
in my works
while in their eyes
I seek redemption.
I find myself
forgotten
angry at the thought
of bread. I will not
eat my poem                    (A. Artaud)
much less be raped
by it. I have a home
but sit with others
shirtless, waiting
for the moon to rise.
I am a warrior
grown old.
The number on my ticket
tells the time.
I seldom wash
& wear a string
around my throat
until it crumbles.
Save yourself for love
the fool advises
& the wise man murmurs
Spill it now!
Your glass is never
empty!
I see your arm
the color of
wild lilacs.
It is not too late
for memory.
Days together are
like days apart.

64

a calendar that fluttered

I lived apart
from what was
forming.
I bartered
photos of
the dead.
Soon everything
caved in & I
emptied my throat
till I
felt cleaner.
I tore a
calendar that
fluttered like
girlsą sex.
I will condemn
the world
because it talks of
love but doesnąt.
I pack the
little bag I have
& start a journey.
I stop the world
just long enough
so that they think
they will not die
inside their rooms.
I crave a
mansion for
my throne.
I tremble at
the opportunity
of omni-
presence.