In the A.M.

Wake up in the dark, frozen alone

Esconced in thick and hairy ersatz warmth.

Impenetrable fortress of my

Pillow, blankets, mattress and empty head;

A barren landscape scarred with your tall

Effigies, thundering shadows, screaming

Memories, still echoing footsteps

After all the long inextremis years.

Peeled back eyelids, blinked once and two times,

Balding blackness bumps about noisily,

Chaotically, cacophany of

Cracking, crumbling comfort. In my bed

I spied a face, murky and muddy,

Calling out to me beautifully.

Reach, touch, penetrate, crush, never change.

Speak to me softly, vituperate me

Privately, pleasant lover. In the

A.M., I can see you staring back in

My direction, in your big fortress.

In the A.M., our discourse is made plain.

Do martyrs multiply, can they grow?

Or is death the fate of every great man?

Stare at me, ask questions and will you

Wonder about me? How many prayers is

Too many? The copiousness of

Dearth of greatness triggers the emptiness,

So I hide away forever in

My fortress of insincerity.

How many martyrs wake up content?

Our discourse is made plain in the A.M.