A Poem Which I Have Been Meaning to Write

On a Clear October Night in Charleston, SC

Tonight I walked out of my house,

sunken to 4AM insomnia,

and looked up. Tonight

I saw Orion’s Belt for the first time in three months.

Having no way else to go,

I followed the line it traced, leading me south.

Colonial Lake rose before me,

a perfect dichotomy of light,

white concrete straining to hold in black water.

As I stood, listening to some man croon

and his guitars play,

and his violin tear through my head,

the lake water swelled, huge black bulk

tearing its way free, crashing up to the stars, held captive skyscraper-high

by my gaze and the frenzied melody.

The water rose tidal wave behind me,

walking down the middle of still Charleston streets,

wondering idly what it would be to die from

exhaustion. The Battery is mine, and my

continent-surge of black surf.

The huge harvest moon blasts through me,

tunnels through me,

ignores me, lonely with my eon-wave casting

its shadow. I wonder, idly, what it would be like

to die from exhaustion.

I wonder, idly, what it would be like to die, lonely, from exhaustion.

The ageless moebius-wave presses at my back and it is all I can

do not to scream.

The moon screams.

The wall of black water screams.

I am left on the edge of Charleston,

walking with the stray cats, the violin-sharp

wind in my spine.