By The Maenad
Moody black and white pictures within me
Memories of my time in the lands of the dead men
Deadname for a dead land, populated by dead friends
A dead time, still dead inside, waiting to come alive
But still, life was denied for such a long time
Memories stain, remaining relentlessly in modernity,
Alive now I find a longing for a time to
Dip my toes back inside the black waters of the Lethe,
Cross the red river into the land of Howard and Jack’s killers.
Why the fuck would I want to return to a time when
I was not divine but slow upchuck on
Someone ELSE’s picket fence,
not _white_ nosirre (Never That, Don’t mention it.)
but still kind of dim, the kind that lays asprawl in the
tallest of grass, eager and a’wait to stick a rusty nail in you.
I don’t miss the cedar, mountain or other,
Actually juniper, I still wish it ill
to die, alone, to become un-cedar
unseeded cedar. Petrified lumber.
If you burn it repeats and
.
.
.
Until Gorgon forests are made of this,
nature’s most Texas mistake,
I shall not risk the hostile Atmospheres of Tejas.
It’s the gods damned mountain cedar
I fear not racists nor homophobes but those trees are
Choking weeds from the land of the last of the dead things.
If you visit this land, you fear you will never leave.
Sit on this couch, here by the Lethe
Or
Fee, Us why are you running?
You’ve hung on hooks before; this is only
a gently stained white wooden bench.
The Maenad
Age 50
From Texas
Currently residing in Seattle
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