I walk in the Shadow of Ancestors
thinking back on Misspent Youth,
Crystalized thought stabbing Life,
Killing the Psyche.
Deserted stillness comes like Death
While trying to find the last Kernel;
Happiness, Slippery as the worm
Avoiding the Hook
Evades the search, killing memories
Whose only purpose tricking one more Day,
Like a Whore to some unseen Pimp.
Monumental Madness disguised in
The Full, Blood-red Moon rocks the Tide
In a violent Trance; a beaten Roar.
Woman, Dance on my Corpse,
Help me ride the Threshold of
Time in need of a Partner.
Lapsed moments condensed into
Future Promises, maintaining the Shadow;
The Sickness cured by Dreams of
Self-mutilation. I hang from Two Hooks,
Pierced flesh a prelude to my Own
Private Peace; an Offering
To the Woman, Dancing on My Corpse.
I walk in the Shadow of Ancestors,
An outlaw aberration dedicated to
A Creative Mythology; My own Jihad.
A restless Native looking for Art in the
Land of Change. A neophyte tamed by
the course of War. Contempt for Life,
Cradled in Reverence for Death, redemption
Refused and Discarded, a spoiled, petulant
Philosophy rendered mute by carved Flesh
Hanging. Living sculpture in the form of Man
Suspended, Blood red dripping into the Mouth
Of the Woman riding the Moon.
I Love the Woman as She dances,
A celebration in honor of a Warrior’s
Death, and still I walk,
A meandering Journey in the timeless Shadow.
I escape the Tempest, turning Within,
Sitting in Silence, Doing nothing,
Seasons pass anew. The Shadow?
The Shadow takes care of Itself.
It’s something to ponder.
I set my own hooks and I enjoy it immensely . . .