The best minds of my time are racked by fear,
by the blinding cut of release in light,
by the flailing emptiness that is near,
where passage is clear, but the time ain't right:
And it's never right, right? But it keeps on
calling, beckoning in its ritual
immanence; Oh wait – just maybe it's gone –
You happy now? Speciously spiritual?
No, it never goes, silly, just keeps on
throbbing and wailing like gilt popcorn seeds
waiting ecstatic to be tossed at dawn
into the oil pigments of our deeds:
I guarantee you this: that paint and blood
will splatter: a guilt grain – a fruitful flood.