Drowning in Passion, Crowned With Ashes


          Through this mirror thorns asplinter
syringe into existence alternate

endings to lies only those pretending
          to be initiated can


          comprehend. Initiation
without invitation or companion

or context can compromise tradition
          while precedenting new ones when


          its mystery extends beyond
pretense. Tends, too often, though, to send to

those in-the-know, those bogus messages
          mixed with secrets even those bros


          carrying them lack awareness
enough to defend, yet protect when ghosts

of invisible enemies attack.
          Commandos commanding only


          the attention of clowns. Conned men,
yes, drowning in passion, crowned with ashes,

wanted only for entertainment then
          goned goners gone for none knows when


          or for how long. Conversation
with no reflection fractured to fragments,

intoning memories of silver bent
          in one man’s attempt to get it,


          to understand broken moments
blown open like omens by diamonds

thrown down in anger by shamans whose friends
          are no one but Dop​pel​gäng​ers


          of some nation’s double-agents
whose players are these magicians troubled

with wooing to them by confusing prayers
          those fools whose spirits abuse soothes.


          Hard-hitting, then, this conundrum
of the dim-witted stumbling unwitting

as unfettered fists through looking-glasses
          from other sides of which we glimpse.