12/52: expiation

This is the wrong temple

I hear people whisper to me

Why do you persist?

Can't you see it is the Goddess of Death,
the all consuming Void?
Madness, madness is upon you.

Their voices wash over me.
I know which temple this is;
I know to which goddess I speak.

We must have words,
She and I,
in order that I may expel

the constructs of many shapes,

unkind and despairing.

In a time of temples,
we would have called them demons,
but in a time of psychiatry,
we call them constructs.

The mistake was made so many years ago,

where were you whisperers then?
now is time for atonement,
for the setting-free.

11/52: heartstorm

If you find yourself having looked into the eyes of the heartstorm

deep

to confront the cowl of madness,

there is no looking away.

Down there in the deep

down there in the deep

down there in the deep

where no one knows but you your secret grief.

Your secret hood

over your ears and eyes

you pull it,

the light fades

down there in the deep

where you can not escape

the eyes of the heartstorm

in the deep.

---

audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/heartstorm1

10/52: Starbucks abduction

On the way to work this morning
I was abducted by aliens.

It's not the first time.

They took me to Starbucks
and forced me to order them
mocha lattes.
Well, forced is a little strong,
but it sounds good.

They uncertainly sipped
at the foamy concoctions
and told me about their lives
back home -
how most of their people
never ventured out
past their everyday existence -
as if exploring other planets
and other civilizations
wasn't actually a choice.

Everything is a choice,
insisted the tall one with two heads.
His other head agreed.

We shook hands,
all three of theirs and both of mine,

and then they beamed me back
into my car and my life.


Audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/starbucks-abduction

8/52: the grey interlude

The snow has dissolved into the earth
leaving the gardens exposed,
raw branches of the blueberry bushes
naked and grey.

Everything is grey for this brief period.
it is the grey interlude
between winter and spring.

I am tempted to dig in the mulch
with my fingers,
hoping to expose the black fruits
as if they are somewhere down below
waiting to emerge whole,
popping out as if the branches were straws.

The grey interlude lasts too long
and my patience wears thin
after months of hiding.