visit from the bard

i'm releasing pathos with
every bead of sweat, every
cigarette i smoke, all the
moments of my life building into
this paradigm of parody

i charge with the elements
die with the seasons, i'm high
on sleep deprivation and black tea
so that i see past reason
into the bard's own raging vision

yes i'm changing with fits and starts
and here he is, fit for kingdom come
he too is drenched with sweat
injecting pink-white pollen from a
violet syringe into a primordial vein

then takes another stiff drink
of ink, breathing into the
moonlight as it stretches
into a cloudbank, the ebony
night lit up with shooting stars

he spots venus buzzing by
then saturn and mars
he does not count on stars
but does a nosedive onto newsprint
scribbling his name again and again

wondering if the morning light
will find him drunk on absinthe
and whether or not pandora's box
still sits atop his nightstand
and if he will open her up

i am the first to fly out
i am the mother sun in the
dawning, the ghost at 6am
i am the butter on his toast
a slave to his feathered head

but never enough of his words
i feed him honey on a spoon
so he will feed my wit
transform my sweat to pearls
and my smoke to poems

and i pass into his trance
embrace his dogged footsteps
trample on his lavender lips
as he mumbles ancient chants
and tosses his ravings into the air

drawing from violent seas
mariners' tales, from desert
sands caravans, from the greek
our helen's face and why not
when history is in his fist

but i the fool of fools
speaking in tongues and
feigning jokes, pleading
with him into day
until he sleeps like a baby

and these visions fade
as i fall upon my pillow
there is a spot where
his head once lay but i
have wasted it, dreaming