April 13, 2005
Crossroads
He, an absent-minded Dionysos rolls
long forgotten wine on high-speed tongue
while selling souls of maidens
for a healthy dose of crack.
This trance beat is his war drum,
barren, his veins would thunder
thunder,
thunder
and I find absolution in his arms.
That surfer on a rocky beach calls
for stereotyped green lights. Poseidon knows
so many ways to dance his solace
as he cradles me in nauseated hope.
Quickened breaths and changing lanes,
he is my freedom in disguise:
fallen,
fallen
I ride to ecstasy and drown.
These casually rewound stories
make me dance on Sunday mornings
without gods: no wiser
as I rise and fall with naked tides.
Worn out coats are shed for better skin,
electric labels mark my birth.
An ambitious human hangs
on my nonexistent sleeve.