i almost never
talk about the
2 or 3 or 22
years i spent
as a recluse
(how do you
speak of
something as
vague as "2 or
or 3 or 22
years" anyway?)
when i felt
like the
earth's best
secret or some
holy jewel
meant for some
silver-clad
hero marauder
i hoped would
never come

everyone
thought i died
or was in
rehab and no
one guessed
that i had a
semi-permanent
migraine that
housed an
alien symbiote
named Jon Bon
Jovi Pepperoni
kicking back
and giggling
mad ceaseless
cancerous joy
for the
Shakespearean
comedy of my
thoughts

was this not
the most
obvious
possibility?

so many eyes
have gazed upon
the red cover
of that
notebook where
i channeled
this tingling
head buzz
doctrine of
carnivore
absurdity but
none could see
into that dark
room where i
cast my
skeleton to
the void to
relieve the
pressures of
having two
eyes, a snout,
and so many
places to go
in my mind i
thought i'd
never leave my
warm psychic
observatory

they don't know
of the beast
that stomped
loudly through
the trees
outside or the
way every car
in the street
was pregnant
with feds
swinging on
umbilical cords
of paperwork
or long strings
of paper
headstones all
signed by me

people always
seem to miss
the most
obvious choice
but what can
you do?

i was nocturnal
and overwhelmed
by the
circadian pulse
that charged
the air
resonating all
the frenzied
hyper-aware
thoughts of
neighbors and
pedestrians
blasting
rhythmic zaps
to my great
big satellite
dish of an
aching head
and i was
lulled by the
lullabies of
angels in my
marrow's breath

so i counted
my fingers and
gathered my
soldiers and
gripped the
necks of my
night prowlers
screaming just
to hear their
reply and i
guess at times
they're still
putting in
their piece

and you wonder
how poems like
this come to be?

besides, it's
totally
possible that
one can forget
that such a
thing as
tomorrow
exists and
that they can
forget this
for 2 or 3 or
22 years

that's why i'm
writing this
in case you
forget (in case
i forget) the
obvious
possibilities
of life beyond
the electric
blue flicker
of narcissism
beyond the so
many filters
of waffle fries
over the eyes
of a fried
night-tripping
brain casting
itself further
and further
out and waiting
for that silver
cord to
finally snap
it back
to reality

either that or
i'm just tired
of hiding away
in the darkness
of this secret
feeling still
like a recluse