i.

Slithering quicksilver,
a moving sculpture with
a lyrical step, yes,
sir, I do think we have
already met, I am
sure of it now, in fact,
you say I have not had
you yet, but I recall
how well you tasted then,
when, in the crosshairs of
a fantasy’s crossroads,
we met, sat down by the
rivers of Babylon,
you refused me nothing
but your hand, I let you
see that I had long wept,
confessed candidly my
dissatisfaction with
the world’s definition
of success, rejected
it, in a sizzling fit
of unrest burned all of
it, every last cent,
the money left over
from my first hit, brought home
so much bacon from such
obnoxious self-expression,
capitalizing then
on my misspent youth’s

                    ii.

distress, let flame consume
my wealth until it turned
to ash, mixed that blackened
cash with my tears and you
said I passed the test, that
perhaps humility
suited me best, that I
was worth it after so
much hell, all the trouble
of putting up with this
anguish, my cargo ship
of baggage which, for too
long I have let hold me
back, sacrificing our
lasting happiness to
get a fleeting, knee-
weakening glimpse of what you
called the waste of the flesh,
too much touch and not
enough of being touched by
what I felt, for loving
me most and far more than
anyone or anything
else because I am
so damaged, I have not
left but have gone, dear friend,
and written you this, for
once no longer content
with playing The Hermit.