My Heart of Darkness 04.07.00
01.08.04

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In thick-lunged terror
in blood sunk rage
in bodyless ecstatcy
of golden green
exist no words
exist no iconography
of sound

As a child as a small me in a smaller body
I suffered from the most terrible of nightmares, dreams
which seem to have expanded outward in their
complexity as my body was also grown.
I recurring visions I saw a wolf standing
darkly illuminated against a voided background, staring
out; I was conscious only of its eyes, full of all
the knowledge of what one experiences, integrates and
endures. This was knowledge I would never find in
books or the stalely [stale?] cencorious stories grown-ups
persuaded themselves I would wish to hear. Nonetheless
I read, read with a viscious avarice,
throwing books against the wall when they did not
meet my unspecified and urgent needs, taking spiteful
delight in the brittle cracking thump as they
slapped the floor. I woke up
screaming from these dreams, woke up all too
often in the smugly milk-stained comfort of
my parents’ sweating bed. I screamed for those
eyes which knew me and everything behind them
I wished to possess. I screamed in the fear
of knowing and the raging [ragged?] injustice of what is
forgotten. I screamed that they were not mine.
I screamed knowing that they someday would be, and
that once again, inevitably, I would lose them again.
I screamed because I did not know the
words. “Oh the horror. The horror.” I spent years of
hours searching with thinning hands, rooting and
plucking to reach my time swept knowledge and
reading, always reading, that I might translate
sensuous visions into words. The word is ravaged, is
plundered, sodomized and burnt. The word, also,
leaves traces of its past. I intended to leave
a hoarding for myself, upon my own return.
No more those eyes, that emptiness, no more
the breathless shock of emptiness, the unfilled
mind, those screams.  ¶ 5:25 PM