the power inside of you

is sacred, like the holy of holies

this rushing wind

is the force that makes things happen

and it should never be given away

holding onto it, is like owning a stock that pays dividends,

or drinking from the cup that contains the blood of Christ.

the marches of Mahler speak to my pain—the classical music of the outsider

the battlefield is the golf course, where I will be laid to rest

under green turf.

I am like a locomotive, rushing down the tracks

I am the line, drawn by a madman, as he sketches the abstract from his soul.

the piano vibrates, with the music that stimulates, like a lover, satisfying seven women

In my next life, I will be Don Juan

In my previous life, I was a hermaphrodite—reproducing, without the need for sex.

the artist walks across his living room, scattered with books of wisdom

he is god

he is deeper, than the deepest hole that goes to hell

fire burns in his eyes, as he composes music

as he lifts weights

in the flickering shadow

of his fireplace.

His suits of power hang in the closet like dead skin

Each neck-tie is carefully arranged like a hangman’s noose.

When he walks down the sidewalk, he parts the pedestrian traffic like the red sea

People are trying to be:

writers

lovers

professionals,

and

there is something sterile

about them.

the artist overflows boundaries

like a flood that washes through deadlands

and annihilates the dead

who didn’t believe.