GloMag GloMagDecember2018 - Page 215

days into loneliness, recuperate loss relationships into memories. 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 art. I'm tiring of Gestalt therapy, being In and Out the Garbage Pail. 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 USA- to revise the old poems and the new, create the last anthology, open then close the last chapter, collected works before the big black box. I'm no longer peripatetic, seasons past. 215