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.