I am lost.
Walking in the forest is dangerous
for the soul.
Brushed by tufts of pine needles,
dipped in the sunset's viscera,
shaken by the thrumming of insects,
it remembers an old life--
a dormant seed stirs in the
wetness of the eye.
I strayed once.
A bush burst into quail.
As I slipped
beneath the forest's skin,
the old raw blood
beaded on my brow.
I cannot go back now.
Soft-furred throats await me
the faint life calls for its freedom.
I peer through branches
at buildings bathed in sodium light
that rise up like evil dreams.
What I remember of men
keeps me away.
I pity you.
You suck puss
from a rotting tit.
You drink blood through a straw
but are bloodless and dry.
You pick out your meat
in styrofoam-blue light,
as if the thing didn't scream when its
head was crushed,
as if its eye did not,
for a moment,
fill the world.
The next time you are on your path
stay away from the trees and don't look
at the shadows they cast.
I will be there
with yaupon for purging,
datura for vision,
I will teach you the feral spell.