In making the unmade bed
The soft cotton sheet twists around
My fingers like a chrysalis, No -
It is time to rise.
And so to the coffee machine
Plug the broken plug into the socket &
One hundred thousand tiny archers
Shoot to the power of ten red arrows into my skin
My treacherous blood spurts them further &
All goes slo-mo –
The cast lightning strikes my ocean floor
And all trembles and I am surely over, No -
I pulsate back and surge my blue self back to the socket
A sentinel pylon gritting a Thor like curse of ‘Fuck’
For a second that a clock could not count
I am in the wire, I am in the ether:
A body of ball lightning, a sentient cloud
Static and moving through the hurricane light flume
A boulder rushing downstream bowling rocks into dust
This rush, some have certainly called love for it consumes all
I feel the coming fall before it hits thanks to the burning black
Smell curlicuing from my chest, to give yourself completely
Unto the light is to fry with the words, become small fry.
I wrench my fingers from the connection and am back
On solid ground, tethered to this body and a blistered finger reminding
Me to think on how, when and from where will I get my next kick
