A series of older poems inspired by William Butler Yeats.
Feeling sickness sweeping over her,
the poet arched over the wastebasket
and threw her soul away. "What's
the difference between self-pity and self-hate?"
She asks me, laying stretched out
and drawing constellations on the ceiling.
I slip away from her misery
in a shroud of cigarette smoke,
spiraling through the darkened universe,
to end up a dense fog around the ceiling light sun.
My body lays like the earth below me.
This is what it is to be free,
not weighed down by genetics and probability;
to be free of doubt, hesitation, impulse;
to exist and not to live.
And I wonder at the difference.
The poet turns to me,
waiting with eyes like flying saucers,,
as I inhale myself,'
the clay tongue laying heavy in my mouth
refuses to answer.