Where am I? Why am I writing in the hour this way? Is it so I can write without seeing All that I write So I can write Without punctuation Without the curlity of the semicolon The practicality of the period It is the magic time When the ancient Witches way collides With the hacker's calling And I find myself unable to express Why I am so itchy Why my ears Fill with a Protective deafness And the water pours down Over and over My drooping eyelids A massage of hot oil Pouring endlessly over my Third eye Warm, fragrant A decadence and And ancient Balancing act In one yuppie package And is it any wonder Those seeking the angels Seek with their money Not their minds But perhaps Function will follow form For some brief instance And joy will be replaced On my eyelids Now that my work here is done And I can enjoy my dreams.
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