alcoholic, fester, holes in my brain, poem, Poetry, shaman, sonnet, the gods breathe, worlds in my skull
All these displays of drunkenness come on
me at odd moments. At twelve they were droll,
even charming. Now? I know that neurons
misfire in my head, though huffing xylol
didn’t help, up along neural pathways
in my brain so that I seem a sucker,
easy mark, artless fuck. All these displays,
from dazed to frenzy, with fears that fester
here, of damage that won’t heal. They all seethe
here. I rave and reel just like cast-off junk.
Manic. A shaman without her people
is just one more loon who hears the gods breathe.
I’ve no people. I don’t drink but I’m drunk
roaming holes in my brain, worlds in my skull.