days into loneliness, recuperate loss relationships into
I'm warrior of the trade of isolation, crucifier of seasons
hang torment on their limbs.
Ever changing words shifting pain to palette fall colors and
I'm tiring of Gestalt therapy, being In and Out the Garbage
I'm no longer an Aristotelian philosopher seeking catharsis.
My Jesus is in a vodka bottle soaked with lime, lemon juice
and disco dancing.
Pardon amnesty I'm heading south beneath border back to
to revise the old poems and the new, create the last
open then close the last chapter,
collected works before the big black box.
I'm no longer peripatetic, seasons past.