VALHALLA DRIFT (a poem)

Sunday, April 27, 2025

Tout le monde,
out in the chem pool,
slugging, sparking, stumbling.
A higher note, hit it, nailed, whoa —
that energy, make the crowd rip the roof off,
the mania, music banging, heads shaking —
I’m gonna cry, an existential love stream,
worse than reality TV,
simple narratives,
we even say it out loud,
no shame, whatsoever.
Hysterical love,
I’m a dance,
I’m a shouted passion,
a gasped utterance of god breath.
Even the dragons shutter.
A lion roar.
Collapse the energy.
Call to order.
The clap of it on the walls.
I’ll write everywhere —
this word unbearable, haunting me.
A hoot in the dark —
a shadow owl,
old monarch of wisdom,
shaming you.
How rude.
I’ll vandalize this mural.
It’s a lie,
and I protest.
Conductor —
the tracks, the rails, and the snow,
a piercing bullet, silver, refreshing.
Co-opted.
Now cores live in my dreams.
Syllabic gallop —
straight through —
the gates —
of Valhalla.
Dissident,
spiralatic rotations,
in the socket of universe —
a pocket of galaxy, tucked away,
on this one system.
The result of a million other miracles,
beyond you.
Wound up, and let go.
Give me permission,
and I’ll love you till the next event horizon.