Lawson McGhee Library on a Friday Morning. Mental health day.
A real one. The demons and furies and mad, guilt stricken mobs
all out in the open prairie, beneath the holy bowl, in my mind.
The sun is soft, but growing hot, in the simple, one pane windows,
as I sit, trying to dream a new dream that lets me escape, not fear
the light and heat of the coming summer, all the poisons sweated out.
Hide in the thick and close non-fiction stacks, away from the windows,
and most other people and their nitpicking and accusatory eyes of green.
I look for the testament of witches, the last words of a blasphemous prophet.
And I don’t like the wide open places, too like the prairies without cover,
easy prey for the demons and beasts and the stars that tear your soft flesh.
Deep in the stacks. Deep in the quiet. Deep in words not motivated by lust.
And evening falls, the most cruelly banal part of the day, the deadest inside.
And I must walk in open territory of The Fort, with my demons, and with drunks.
A book I carry my finally reveal the Words of God, in a dark and raging story.