… any creative life.

By J. K. McDowell

November 2016

 

A fresh corpse hangs in the branches and I know

I am now in the right part of the jungle forest.

The question is my Friend, where is the Jaguar?

 

What blight and oblivion feed his intellect?

What neglect and disregard feed her revenge?

Blades crisscross – know these are not two separate questions.

 

The air is thin, the spaces between are even

Thinner. Do not panic, a soft breath sometimes

Stays unnoticed by the terrors. I did say sometimes.

 

I turn my face away in perfect timing

As the multitude of boils on my right arm

Burst in fluidic fireworks. This is a good dream.

 

The engravings on this ancient skull are not

Postmortem. I wonder at the fine skill and

Psychotropics, the courage of both healer and healed

 

James, I just finished reading your obituary out loud.

The portraits on the wrinkled bills in my wallet wept in grief.

No currency can lengthen the thread of any creative life.

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