… that desire.

By J. K. McDowell

March 2011

 

The creaking upstairs – there are ghosts in the studio.

“Don’t go back to sleep!”  Is that you, son of the drowned book?

And the cackle of laughter, the chills?  My own.

 

The absinth was spiked with naga jolokia.

I sip calmly, her moist lips whisper – “I want burning”

And here I thought it was only the poem.

 

We blink and the ground is covered in snow.

Wasn’t I dead just a year ago? No one’s to blame.

“These do not matter.”  You are here.  I am here.

 

How do we make the time in this straight jacket serve us?

Make!  Ah, the wrong question costs your house 1000 points.

To serve is “to taste one sip of an answer.”

 

My body of pleasures and pain is now the dust.

The Beloved paints highlights of spiraling flames

In your hair.   Oh Blessed One, “kneel and kiss the ground.”

 

Finally J. K., you realize the meaning of

“The Soul is here for its own Joy” and no amount

Of greedy suffering hinders that desire.

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