900

I’m in a duffel bag

Bitter black coldness

Freezing

Shivering in an anxious fit

On LSD.

I’m waiting for the giants to vacate and harass someone else’s sleep.

I’m counting backwards from 900.

I’m waiting for the light to be my friend.

I’m waiting for the electricity to retire and die a ravenous monster eating into my eyelids.

I’m a well placed dope-fiend in a gospel choir.

I’m a cub playing the part of a helpless fox.

I’m a pillar of salt painted with fool’s gold.

I’m a wet log salted with keef.

I’m an Apache chief,

A warlord in a time of peace.

I’m a lying jester for the sake of advocating Satan.

I’m a dead poet writing dying words alone and obsolete to this generation trying to fit in a black duffel bag.